Having the spins without the fun

I’ve embarked on a new adventure. I am trying to look at life in a different way.

Magnified, that is.

Yes, it has come time for me to just accept the fact I can’t see like I used to.

First indication was a constant headache while working at the computer.

Second indication? That I find myself consistently moving papers back and forth, closer, then further, closer, then further, until I can focus these decrepit eyes on the words before me.

I tried to deny that my perfect eyesight was starting to fail me . . . but when I started getting cramps in my neck from leaning within inches of the monitor, I had to embrace the truth.

It’s time for assistance. At least, that’s what the nose print on the glass screams to me.

I’ve tried to reason that because I seem to see things at a far distance with no problem, I don’t really need prescription help.

I just need a magnifying glass when I’m trying to read and write (which unfortunately is the majority of my waking hours and I have no free hand to hold it up).

That’s when friends told me about this new miracle that can be purchased for small change at retail stores. The revolutionary inventions are called “readers.”

Yes, reading glasses. I found a nice rack of decorative styles that had numbers next to them. Apparently, the higher the number, the greater the magnification.

So, hoping no one was watching (and I’m not clear as to why I’m embarrassed) . . . I tried on many different pairs.

Not to see how they looked on my face (because I couldn’t see my reflection anyway), but to see if I could read the fine print of a magazine article I’d brought with me.

After a few tries, I selected the 1.5 model, with leopard-print frames nonetheless (I had to do something to make myself feel better about it all).

I marched back into work with my new gadgets, thrilled that when I’d put them on . . . the words would be jumping at me, not dwindling into a blurry fog.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled up a word file. Yep, fuzzy . . . the words seemed to be as far away as the Hubble telescope.

I reached for the glasses and propped them on my face. Still blurry, but after a few minutes of adjustment . . . the letters started to grow. They became more clear, more clear, more clear . . .

Oh, dear Lord! I could see!

I leaned back in my chair, sighing with satisfaction that I didn’t have to squint or press my face against the screen.

That’s when the phone rang.

Being accustomed to just turning my head when the need arises, I did just that. I swung toward the telephone . . . and nearly passed out.

Because I didn’t take the glasses off, before refocusing my view, I threw myself into a blurry tailspin that nearly knocked me out.

I quickly ripped them off my face and rubbed the old eyeballs.

“Oh, don’t do that again,” I mumbled, noting a change in focus is like having the spins after a night of margaritas . . . but without the fun.

I had to let the call go to voice mail because I couldn’t even see the receiver. Once my tainted eyesight came back to clarity, I called the person back. But that reeling without rum trick was still in force.

Over the past week or so, I’ve tried to remind myself that if I’m going to put on the readers, I have to stay focused on one thing at a time . . . or the spins are going to come back.

But I don’t listen to advice, including my own. I am constantly looking here, there, everywhere . . . feeling tipsy-type nausea without any tispy-type fun.

Now instead of leaning in and out, I’m constantly taking those stupid things off, putting them on, taking them off, putting them on . . . and effectively ruining my makeup by wearing a ridge into the top of my nose and even deeper grooves into the bags under my eyes.

And all the while . . . my head spins from a mixture of blindness, magnification and a would-be whiskey-induced state (again, without the whiskey).

In a nutshell . . . I’d rather be blind with a headache than crazy with dizzying nausea.

I just took them off because someone wanted to talk to me. My eyes adjusted to see them, but I’ll eventually have to suck it up and put those stupid things back on so I can see what I’m writing for this Thursday column.

I have a tendency to just accept the way things are, that I will have to suffer for the rest of my life. And I had resigned myself to thinking this is how I will spend my remaining days . . . until a co-worker had some amazing words of wisdom.

“You know, there is something you could do about this,” said the lifetime eyeglass-wearing co-worker, feeling nauseated herself after hearing all my complaining.

“You could just go to the eye doctor and let them figure out what prescription glasses you need. Then you could look at anything you wanted and those glasses would actually adjust.

I know, it’s crazy,” she laughed and then half-whispered as if it were a secret, “I hear the people are called op-tom-e-trists.”

I laughed, too. It’s time to give up the ghost and quit bragging about how amazing my peepers are.

No more showing off with eye charts (I used to be able to read the tiniest of the tiniest). It’s time to go to these secret wizards called “optometrists” and let them work their magic.

After all, if I’m going to have the spins, I at least want to have some fun first.

 

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