Newly Four Eyes

On glasses, seeing, and the end of the world.

I have perfect vision, almost. But when I was six, my mom took me to an optometrist. I had my eyes dilated with drops, which made everything blurry for a few hours, even when I was back in my first grade classroom. Although I could barely see, I scribbled out a few pages of my book. During writing time each day, instead of starting a new story like many classmates, I always continued the same narrative. My protagonist was a princess/writer named after the author. There was a romance, a dragon, a loose fairytale plot I figured out as I went, a la Jack Kerouac.

By the next morning, the drops from the eye exam had worn off. My dad brought me to school early, and I led him into my classroom to proudly show off the next great American novel. But everything I’d written the day before was illegible. Some monster had destroyed my handiwork.

That monster was me, a little blind mouse, scribbling away, inspired, yet unable to read her output. How frustrating. A day’s work, gone forever. All because I wanted glasses.

I forget what necessitated the checkup, maybe there’d been a screening at school. Or maybe I’d been squinting and fibbing, secretly yearning for a prescription fashion statement. Hoping to be dubbed special, smart, sophisticated, and all the other positive adjectives the glasses-bestowed characters in pop culture were known to be. Arthur Read, most notably. Love that aardvark.

Arthur Timothy Read, PBS icon - “Having fun isn’t hard when you’ve got a library card!”

My husband has worn glasses since childhood. Looks great in them. Special, smart, sophisticated, all the things. Arthur plus. He’s not a contacts guy, doesn’t even have them. Although I love his glasses, as an Enneagram six, I do have some concerns.

“I love your glasses,” I start. “But will you please think about getting Lasik? Just in case the world ends.”

“Hmm…” he says, thinking it through. “'Cause you want me to be hotter during the apocalypse?”

“No!” I say. “'Cause I want you to survive the apocalypse.”

I paint a quick image for him. Apocalypse happens, nevermind the details. We’re trying to survive or escape or both with our cat Kimchi. Then Josh’s glasses get smashed. Leaving it all on me — the one with perfect vision and only a handful of practical skills — to drive us, protect us, feed us, deliver us. Can you imagine? Just me, my husband who can’t see, and our perfect cat. I smell sitcom. Inspiring survival story, not so much.

Kimchi’s apocalypse: pre-move last summer

This summer, I get my eyes checked for the first time since childhood. No blinding, book-ruining drops are involved. The Costco optometry staff member takes photos of my retinas, tells me to follow an alien with my eyes, and shoots air into my eyeballs. The optometrist asks me to read letters projected onto the wall through the phoropter. Then, the news I’d waited so many years to hear: I need glasses!

Actually, she says my vision is perfect, except for a cute little astigmatism which might affect my vision, particularly at night. She writes a prescription for glasses and tells me they are totally optional. “A luxury, not a necessity. Keep them in your car,” she suggests, “for driving at night.” With insurance, the glasses are inexpensive, so I pick out green rectangular frames and put in my order.

Man Ray’s “Glass Tears” — I got this as a postcard in Paris, and I have it framed in my home office. At first, I put it in the living room, but my husband said it was staring at him.

Today I pick the glasses up. I try them on in Costco. They do nothing. At home, when the sun sets, I put them on again.

Now, everything looks a little crisper. Nothing dramatic, no was-blind-and-now-I-see Amazing Grace transformation. Not like when my cousin got glasses as a kid and looked up, squealing with surprise, “There are leaves on the trees!” No, it’s quite subtle. Like an extra light has clicked on. I never noticed how the art on my walls got a little blurry after nightfall. Now everything looks sharper, better defined. The words on my computer screen look a smidge darker. A luxury, yes, thank you very much.