Ten years ago, I generally thought it was cool when the time rolled around to get a new pair of glasses and update the ol’ vision prescription. In my case, I’ve been rumbling steadily down the road of deteriorating myopia since, um, third grade, which means new specs or contacts every couple years have been the name of the game.
What’s not to love about get new glasses? Few things can so fundamentally change the way people see your face as a new set of specs. And while I tend to wear my contacts more—because I have the light-sensitivity of a garden mole meaning Yay! Sunglasses!—I honestly think I like better with my glasses on. You know, more studious and less confused middle-aged beer drinker.
In case you’re curious, the script for my peepers at the moment puts me at –6, which is bad. To put that in perspective for you, without correction, I couldn’t tell the difference between my mobile phone and a ripe avocado sitting side by side on my desk, a mere 24 inches from my face.
Which is unfortunate, because avocados get worse reception than AT&T.
The Puddinette’s vision is even worse than mine. Most nights the only way she knows she’s sleeping next to the right guy is because of my distinctive, “attempting-to-shake-the-earth-until-it-breaks-apart-in-a-glorious-display-of-light-and-color celestial event” type snore. Well, okay, so that’s how she knows she’s not sleeping next to the right guy, if you want to be nitpicky about it.
My mom’s vision is even worse. She needs glassed and contacts. Without them, the cobbler elves could come scampering right out at the height of midday and do their thing without fear of being seen.
So, with a genetic pool like that, my poor kids are pretty much doomed. In fact, three of the four of them are already in corrective lenses.
Which is why I suddenly got light-headed last week when my wife informed me that it was Time To Take The Kids Back To The Ophthalmologist. Oh sure, picking out new glasses was all Fun and Games in my mid-twenties, when retirement was as an abstract and idea as cubism. But now, when three kids need glasses all at once, I pretty much have to call my mortgage broker.
The worst part is, it’s not the glasses. It the lenses. Oh sure, lenses by themselves aren’t too bad. But you want that scratch coating, right? Because, hey, kickball at recess. And the glare coating, too, right? I mean, what’s the point in correcting their vision if everything is going to glare back them like the lens flare in Star Trek? Oh, and you have to get the lightweight, sir. Because, otherwise, their fragile little noses will be shorn right off. Then don’t forget about the infrared. And the night vision. And the laser vision. Plus the X-Ray. Gotta have that. Oh, and the augmented reality. And you’ll definitely need our patented Ghost-Scope, right? I mean, who doesn’t want their kid to see dead people?
I’m not kidding. These lenses have more options than my car. And I’m pretty sure they cost about the same.
Yeah, buying new glasses isn’t quite so fun anymore.
But that’s why I got to do Saturday.
Anybody got some odd jobs?