Thursday, July 26, 2001

Eye See

"Better, one or two?"

"Neither."

"Better, one or two?"

"Neither."

"Better, one or two?"

"Um...neither."

So went my appointment with the ophthalmologist where I was soon informed that my vision in the right eye is significantly worse than that in my left. This has not always been the case and it turns out there are blood vessals growing in my cornea where they ought not be.

The treatment for this is a series of medications, antibiotics and steroids (I know what steroids of this sort actually do, but I can't hear the word without thinking of a Teutonic trainer vowing to "pump up my puny cornea") which, while I'm using them will severely curtail the amount of time I'm permitted to wear my contact lenses.

So, for the near term anyway, it's back to eyeglasses for me. I've not worn glasses for almost ten years, except for an old pair I keep around to get me from the bathroom to the bedroom each night without killing myself with a tumble down the stairs and to prevent accidentally kicking the dog. I am, as my doctor put it, in "the big leagues of myopia" which means that without contacts or glasses, vague shapes and shadows are all I can make out, except at the closest proximity.

The lenses in my chunky old pair are a bit thicker than a quarter-inch, the classic "Coke bottle" sort of specs that made me a grammar school pariah. When the helpful Jamaican fellow at Lenscrafters ("A lighter wallet...in about an hour.") asks what sort of glasses I'm looking for, I have one word: "thin".

I know they've learned to grind lenses much thinner in the decade or so since I've needed a pair, and since I'll be wearing them almost all the time for at least a couple of months, I want my spectacles to be as svelte as possible.

After giving up one hour of my time, $400 and more than a little peripheral vision, I have a new fashion accessory that, as an added benefit, also prevents me from inadvertently committing vehicular manslaughter.

They don't look half bad, I'm assured by friends, and I must admit to being pleased with how light they are and how quickly I've reacclimated to life before I could shove little bits of etafilcon into my eyes.

And yet, every time I walk by a mirror — for a moment and no more — I become an awkward second-grader again, with a huge windshield across my face, resting on what can be charitably described as "a prominent nose".

Awkward pre-adolescent or slightly less awkward adult? Better, one or two?

Of course, back then, the only thing I had to fear was dodge ball.