I have always been proud of my stellar eyesight. My hazel orbs rendered me perfect vision up until about three years ago. At that juncture I was in quite a state of consternation to realize that I had begun squinting whilst reading. These eye gymnastics caused reading to become annoying. I could not allow reading to become annoying, so I reluctantly plodded over to the nearest eyesight superstore to have my eyes checked out. Indeed, I did require reading glasses. I dutifully selected a pair of red rimmed rectangular glasses and incorporated this tool into my existence. This solution was successful until recently. To my increasing displeasure I found that squinting was now required even as I wore my glasses. Additionally, distance vision was also becoming a challenge. I went back to the eyesight superstore. At the conclusion of this eye exam I was horrified to hear the doctor utter the “B” word. Bifocals. What? And wear them all of the time? The pouty child within me was throwing her small body in an unprecedented tantrum, complete with staccato foot stomping. The doctor explained my options:
1- I could use two different pairs of glasses. One pair for reading and one pair for looking at far away things. I could play the Switcheroo Glasses game all day long to my endless enjoyment.
2- I could wear bifocal glasses. When reading, I would have to look down through the bottom part of the glasses. When I wanted to look at other things I would have to aim my vision upwards. I was kind of wondering if I’d appear to have a tick trying to look up and down like that. I suppose after time and practice I could work it into a graceful and effortless move. However, there was that whole thing about having to have glasses perched on my nose all day long. I am sure many of you do this and I am proud of you and give you many kudos for this. My biggest problem with it is that I have made it thus far in my life without having to lug glasses around on my face constantly. Surely, they would get in my way at times? Maybe not. Anyway, as the doctor was explaining this option, my inner pouty child was screaming in my ear that there must be another way, so I politely asked about the third option.
3- Contacts. The doctor assured me that bifocal contacts were a viable option. It sounded kind of wild to me that your eye can figure out which way to look through, but I decided not to pester the man with these sort of questions. He suggested that I schedule a future appointment to try the insertion process. He said to allow three hours because some people have trouble doing this on their own. Three hours? I was flabbergasted. Could it really take this long? How long would one have to allow to get ready for work if it took so much time to insert contacts? The scenarios rolled through my head as I laughed shortly and calmly scheduled my date for the Contact Lens Wars.
When I returned the next day ready to battle this unusual foe, I was determined that I would be victorious in a mere ten minutes. I actually did perform rather well within the walls of the tiny Contact Lens War Room. I do believe that I would have completed my mission within my desired time limit had my teenage daughter not been repeatedly calling my cell phone during the process. Didn’t she know that I was engaged in time sensitive warfare? The pressure was on. I did not buckle. I persevered and completed my task in fifteen minutes.
It seems weird to me that it was so much easier and quicker the first time I put my contacts in. Scenes in my bathroom trying to recreate this action were comical. How many places do you think my contacts could end up besides my eyeball? The most common place was my finger. The blasted thing would not get off of my finger! It did not want to make the jump to my eye. It would cling to my finger in a wet, desperate embrace. The second most favorite spot for my contact to be was in the sink. Every time it would leap into the sink it would cause me a momentary stab of panic due to visions of it continuing its path down the drain. Occasionally it would make a dash onto the marble counter top and hide there, blending in skillfully within the randomly patterned,abstract design. Once, it lodged itself in my hair. Once, it fled inside my shirt. To top it all off, my four year old daughter loves to watch all of this. She will climb up and sit on the counter next to the sink and watch intently. She’s actually the perfect cheerleader. She is always ready with a rousing: “Good job, Mommy,” when a contact is successfully wrestled into place. She shares in my woe when a contact goes awry and offers condolences and words of encouragement. Sometimes her seven year old brother appears on the scene as well. This, however, creates bedlam. He is usually touting his nerf gun and targets his unsuspecting prey while they are otherwise engaged. My cheerleader will then vault from her perch and a merry chase will ensue in my bathroom. This will not do.I require quiet and peace to be able to concentrate on my difficult task. I am then forced to morph into ‘Mean Mommy’. I contribute loud, threatening words and dramatic hand gestures to the chaotic mix.
Happily, I am getting better at inserting my contacts, but I admit that there are some days that I am not willing to play this game.On those days, I contentedly pad around my house wearing a pair of magnifying lens type glasses that I bought at Walgreens for ten bucks. It’s all good.