My children are constantly shoving things in my face to read. A test they did well on, a math problem they need help with, a permission slip they’re too afraid to forge. And my response now, regardless of content, is almost always, “Wait. I need my glasses.” Nooooo!
Long gone are the days when I could focus simply by holding the paper out a little farther. If I don’t have my plus-1 tortoise shell readers on, fuhgeddaboudet. I’m blind as the proverbial bat. Distance is still fine, but anything within a foot is a headache-inducing blur. What’s frustrating is that I’ve always had perfect vision. In fact, I’ve spent the last 30 years obnoxiously teasing everyone else about not being able to see as well as me. Karma’s stupid.
So, I’m embracing my subpar sight. I’ve purchased multiple pairs of glasses and positioned them strategically around the house. I’ve resorted to borrowing the large-print books from the library and am shopping for one of those gizmos that holds eyewear around the neck, which Doo is telling me are called croakies (clearly, a derivative of the verb croak, meaning I’m aging quickly and will soon die). Yes, I can pull off the “headband look,” but not when I already have knock-off aviators sitting up there. It’s redundant.
On the positive side, my teacher street cred is about to increase exponentially. Imagine me, peering down at a student over glasses attached to a bedazzled bungie cord. Sure, it’s a bit spinster-librarian, but it screams, “I’m smart! Listen to me!”
I’ll end here. My oldest needs something signed. Now, where are my glasses?