About 2-1/2 years ago, I realized with a panicky sense of alarm, that I could no longer see anything clearly beyond say oooh thirty feet.
Give or take a yard. Or three.
Since my natural inclination in all matters tends to err on the side of Something Terrible is Happening and the fact I have never truly accepted the fact I’m now officially Middle Age …
I’m sorry. I’m working on the whole inappropriate shrieking thing. Didn’t mean to frighten you.
My lack of distance vision was really very bothersome. So much so that I put off going to the optometrist for another six months thinking maybe it was just a phase. Like acne. Or puberty. Some silly chapter in the Ball of Fun We Call Life wherein you suffer for a bit, then blossom into something better than before.
Officially, as most intelligent people will tell you, vision generally doesn’t fall into that category.
When I finally went to the optometrist it was somewhat vexing when he ceremoniously confirmed that I, indeed, have less than perfect vision and that as you get older, your eyes … blah blah blah …
Okaaaaaay, Dr. Thirty-Something With the Perfect Teeth and Sans Spectacles I don’t need yer stinkin’ medical schtick.
JUST GIVE ME MY GLASSES.
He then added to my torment by ordering up another test, a computer-generated evaluation that showed me exactly what was going on with my eyes.
LISTEN, I WOULD JUST LIKE TO GO PICK OUT MY GLASSES PLEASE.
Okay. I have to admit that when I saw the topographical image of the surface of my eyes on the screen, I was completely mesmerized. Really? Wellll, hellllloooo eyeballs. Aren’t you guys just the neatest little body parts?
He proceeded to take his shiny metal pointer and touched the computer screen showing me the area where my left eye has two patches of ‘little hills’ that contribute to my vision distortion. He then smiled and advised me I’d be (and I quote) ‘a perfect candidate for lasik surgery’. He said the procedure is a simple process wherein they do the equivalent of ‘sanding’ down the hill back to flatlands again.
Ya know … for a moment there …
But. Well no. I told him if I was authorizing the ‘sanding down’ of anything on my body it would be my backside or thighs and I quite think that was out of his realm of expertise.
GLASSES, SIR. JUST GIVE ME MY GLASSES.
And. While I’m sure in this day and age, lasik surgery is about as routine as finding a Starbucks in Seattle, with my rather dubious luck, I just know I would be one of the estimated 12% of the population who, after the surgery, sees light halos or their eyeballs fall out into their soup.
After the question of lasik surgery was put to rest, he exited stage right and a technician came in to set me up for a simple chart reading. When I was done, she scribbled something down on my chart, stood, gave me a little wink and chuckled. ‘Let me know which way you’re driving home so I’m not in front of you.’
Oooh. Hardee har har.
I’ll bet she moonlights as a clown.
Long story short, I’ve now been attired with glasses for driving and distance for about two years now.
I really tried to get used to them. I did. However, facing facts, I am not the type of person who looks good in glasses. Any style. I am constantly misplacing them. The glare-proofing on the lenses is scratched and chipped. The damn frame bends into queer and un-fixable contortions when you leave them on your car seat and accidently sit on them. You would think for $384 you’d enjoy them a bit more.
Therefore, May 27th will go down in history as a
Very Big and Happy Day for Yours Truly.
Contacts could save my life.