The Eyes Have It

The rumor is true. The myth has been confirmed. The first

thing to go on your body when you turn forty is your

eyesight. (Openings like that tend to make the editor

extremely nervous.)

But, to continue on with my findings, I never used to have

problems with my eyesight until I turned forty.

I must

confess, three-fifths of my family wear some sort of eye

wear. However, I’ve always been blessed with twenty-twenty

vision. There was a time that I could spot a quarter on

the ground, a mile away, and be able to tell you the year

on it. Now, I’m lucky I don’t walk into the side of a

Wells Fargo truck.

When I was younger, I used to love to read. Now, it’s a

real chore. In fact, I’m typing this article, right now,

while my wife is holding the computer screen from across

the room. I believe the doctors call this

“farsightedness.” An appropriate name for a condition that

requires one to read the small print on a contract from a

helicopter.

Sure, I could get fitted with glasses, but then I’d have to

face all my family and friends, telling me how good I look

in them and then listen to their snickers and comments

about how much I look like Great Grandpa Megill, just

before they took away his driver’s license for pulling up

to a drive-in window at the bank and ordering a Big Mac.

The thing that bothers me most is driving at night. I used

to be able to drive down a dark highway, in the middle of

the night, with a stream of cars coming at me, with their

high beams on and never squint. Now, I need to wear

sunglasses if they have their parking lights on.

Driving at night is even more of an adventure. All those

little beams of light, shining through the prisms of the

raindrops on my windshield, makes it look like there’s an

invasion of extraterrestrials in front of me.

 
Forget about trying to find a house number or read a street

sign at night. By the time I focus on what street it is,

I’m two blocks passed it. This disturbing inability to

read signs while driving is probably the inner most secret

behind why there are few pizza delivery guys over forty.

My wife has tried to encourage me into going to the

optometrist, ophthalmologist, or one of those “ists”, to

have my eyes examined, just in case I do need glasses. She

says that I’m crazy about the stigma behind wearing

glasses. What I don’t want to tell her is that I’m afraid

that all those years of calling my brother “four-eyes” is

going to come back to haunt me.

My wife suggested that I wear contact lenses. I don’t

know. The thought of purposely sticking a piece of plastic

in my eye sounds about as appealing as drilling my own

teeth with a Craftsman Cordless Power Drill.

I guess I’ll just continue on the path that I’m headed down

and wait until they hook me up to a German shepherd to make

it across the street. Besides, my wife has been bugging me

about getting a dog anyway.