A few years ago my eye doctor suggested I was ready for bifocals. Of course, I didn’t believe him. His response was, “One day you’re getting glasses to read, and the next year you’ll need them to eat.”
He knew what we was dealing with, so he referred to them as progressive lenses, the kind where the close up and far away views are blended. He convinced me that I should get used to o the back and forth before I really needed them. He said I could train both my eyes and my brain to read around the blur. I like to imagine myself as progressive, so I gave in.
Those bifocals are my old lady glasses and I never wear them. It’s a lot of work, adjusting to that space between close up and far away. And the blur in between? Well, that was actually painful. Plus, I looked like my grandmother. She was beautiful, but she was 93, and I am not there yet.
I wear glasses, just not all the time. I believe I have six pairs of reading glasses (very cool glasses, too), stashed wherever I might need them. They’re required for close ups, but I don’t need them for distance.
At least I don’t think I do.
I suspect there is a metaphor hiding in my glasses. The bifocals, the progressive lenses, those multi-taskers known as transitional lenses.
Fifty-six. With the curiosity to look closer, and the patience to scan the long view. And, though sometimes painful, navigating the blur in between. They are a little annoying, and not always cute, but the clarity is almost always helpful. Proof that I am indeed older, and more than halfway to Grandma Jessie’s 93.
That’s me, squinting as I adjust.
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