By Sean Pearson
The older I get, the more trouble I have keeping track of my glasses. And while it’s not like I’m blind without them, let’s just say my arms sure aren’t getting any longer.
These glasses came after years of shamelessly flaunting my razor-sharp, crystal-clear, 20/13 vision and proudly proclaiming my precision visual acuity to everyone within earshot. (Sadly, I quickly misplaced the optical aids I coughed up $600 for, and found myself shelling out a big $9.99 at Fred Meyer for reading glasses that seem to work just as well; only I can’t find them either.)
No really … I only need them for reading — it’s nothing serious, you know. It doesn’t mean I’m getting older, or show any correlation to the graying of hairs on my head.
Call it karma — or call it cataracts — I fear the days of my youth spent carelessly sitting too close to the TV have finally taken their toll. Alack, my parents warned me of this possibility, too. Maybe Dad was telling me the truth when he said my eyes would eventually stay that way if I kept crossing them. (I’m still wondering if burnt toast really makes your cheeks rosy. Or is it that it puts more hair on your chest?) I can only imagine how smug my folks must feel now as they sit back and knowingly nod at my infantile ignorance.
Or maybe they’re actually busy doing something with their own lives and have absolutely no idea what I write from week to week…
How many times do we have to go over this whole “it’s all about me” thing?
Anyway, I thought I took the news of my eyesight impairment rather well. I generally try to look at the world through rose-colored glasses. It’s either that, or all this staring at the sun has bored a nice clean hole into my retina and blood is leaking into my vitreous. (Wasn’t that something else my parents told me not to do?)
I didn’t sulk and pout about having to become a four-eyed geek. I didn’t fix my hair in different styles and cry when I couldn’t find any outfits to match my glasses. I didn’t even pull a “Jan Brady” and crash my bike into the family portrait in the garage.
(I feel I must include some sort of “opposing view” here, just to be fair. I don’t think anyone would be so much in direct opposition to the Jan Brady reference, as much as the possibility that I acted, “like a baby” about having to get glasses. And while I may grant that to quip: “Well, if I can’t see perfectly, I might as well be blind,” could be construed as bitter and possibly overstated, I stand my ground on the disappointment of never realizing my dream to becoming the world’s first ninja fighter-pilot/nano-technical brain surgeon.)
By the way, I’m not sure why getting glasses is such a big deal. It doesn’t seem nearly as traumatic as all my friends in elementary school whined about. So far, no one has called me four-eyes and I haven’t had any problems with bullies kicking sand in my face. What’s the big deal?
Hmmm. Maybe my parents were right about that whole maturity thing, too. Is it possible I’ve finally moved beyond adolescent humor and absurdity and boldly stepped into adulthood? Maybe this is it. Maybe through my middle-aged muddling, I’ve finally mastered maturity!
Wow. That was so exciting, I almost knocked my glasses off.
Maybe it’s time for a little adult supervision.
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