Four Eyes

After putting it off, and being put off, for a full two years I have finally dragged my butt to a random Optometrist in a random mall. After learning that, no, in fact my insurance won't pay for this visit after all (thank you United States Government) I plop myself down and watch the t.v. in a almost blind haze.

I have no more contacts left and my glasses are broken - they'll have to lead me into the exam room by my hands...and I'll still probably walk into a wall.

The little girl waiting with me is bouncing around happily trying on all the frames and finally picking her favorite - and she hasn't even seen the doctor yet. She seems excited. In my grouchy, blind, poor, starved and work/traffic-stressed mood I think really horrible thoughts - that little girl is headed for years and years of depression and misery. She's already chubby, has flat yellow hair, and now she's going to be wearing glasses. From the way she smiles I can tell she's headed for braces too. Cruelly I think she better be smart because high school is going to be hell otherwise.

I never said I was a nice person. While I picture the poor gawky teenager she'll grow up to be (I was one too) I also mentally imagine where I will stick the pins into my TriCare Representatives VooDoo Doll.

I go through the motions. One or Two, Two or Three. Read this line. F, V, D. Oh no sorry, it's E, Y, B. Not very good at this huh? No shit lady...I CAN'T SEE!

This used to be fun...I used to like going to the Eye Doctor. I used to be fascinated by the fact that little pieces of glass could make such a huge difference. Now it's just a reminder that my eyes are failing more and more and I will have to put plastic against my eyeballs for the rest of my life.

My doctor makes the determination that I have been wearing the wrong contacts for my entire life. Everytime I go to the Eye Doctor they tell me this. Everyone else was wrong, they're right. They give me a new prescription and a new kind of lens. Then push me out the door to fork over vast sums of money. I almost cringe when I hear myself mention that I need new frames, I think the commission based salesmen can hear me...and they are drooling.

But to my surprise the Doctor disappears back into the gloom with my chart and the other salesmen jump up to help some poor man looking for sunglasses. I am left on my own without anyone to guide my frame selection. I notice for the first time that my prescription is actually pretty good and things look cleaner and clearer than they have in a long while. I start to peruse the frames. Don't like those, don't want anything like that...these are cool. I'm wandering aimlessly making small little decisions that will ultimately form my criteria for the perfect frame when it suddenly hits me.

I am all alone. Completely. Totally. This is weird.

I started wearing glasses when I was 10. My Father took me the first time and of course advised me on what frames would be best for me. He seemed to think that double bowed frames are the best choice (it's what he wore) and because I was 10 and trusted my Dad that's what I got.

And that's what I was stuck with for 4 years...renewing the lenses, keeping those terrible frames all through middle school.

The second time I got frames again my Father accompanied me, but this time I was in full rebellion mode. Everyone told me to get thick frames, hopefully plastic, so as to be durable. I got wire thin frames. Painted in psychedelic colors that came from the early 90's. They were actually perfect.

For a year, till the screws started popping loose and the arms started breaking. I wore a safety pin in place of a screw for three years. The amount of "I told you so"'s in that office was enough to make anyone insane. I capitulated by allowing myself to be stuck with a cross-breed of my first pair of glasses and my second. Within the year I had switched to contacts (which my doctor warned would make me go blind) and conveniently hid the awful pair of black wire frames that threatened to plague me with more years of bad photos and old maid looks.

I only escaped for so long. My husband and I shopped for a week for the perfect pair, a little hipster-y, a little catty, very chic for my last appointment. I was madly in love with a specific tiny pair with a nice cat like flair, he liked the rounded ones. After an hour of me hinting that he needed to love the pair I loved, and an hour of him "not getting it", we left the store with a promise to come back when I had my new prescription.

Then my husband abandoned me for some war thing half-way round the world and I once again found myself shopping for glasses in the presence of my parents.

I was sure once they saw the perfect pair they'd instantly agree it was lovely on me, or at least my mother would catch on the signals and pretend to agree. Instead my parents spent an hour playing dress-up while I was not allowed to voice my opinion. Instead of the trendy, thick, dark glasses I wanted I went home with a pair of rim-less frames that matched my hair. I actually liked them. I was really into them for a little while, only slightly disappointed at the loss of my cat-eyes. Then I turn on the news and realize I'm wearing the same glasses as Brit Hume.

I hate them for years.

And now I find myself standing in an eye glass store with no husband, no mom, no dad, no sales man, no doctors. I whip out my cellphone.

"Hey honey, I'm done at the doctors...I'm going to get new glasses."

"Do you want me to come down and help."

"Nope, I know what I want and when I get them you have to say they're cute."

And I do know what I want. The perfect pair. Not the expensive kinds my husband would gravitate too. Not the conservative boring things my parents like. I get the perfect pair. Almost catty, almost not. A perfect blend of sixties librarian and cute chick. Bookish and pretty. They are so me.

I get them, they look good, the adjuster says they're adorable. I slip them on secure in the knowledge my husband will like them, because he has too. He plays his part.

"Cute" he says.

I wiggle into the car happily with my new glasses. Glasses I picked all by myself. Glasses I choose because I liked them. Glasses I liked without any outside influence. I'm proud of myself, I am a push over no longer.

I feel like the girl at the doctors office who was all excited about getting her first pair. And even better because I do not have to face high school anymore.

Then I'm struck with sudden panic.

"Do you really like them?" I ask hesitantly in the voice all men know spells trouble.

"Yes. They're fine." He replies...he already knows he's trapped.

"Just fine? They're not cute?"

"They're cute...they look good."

I stop hassling, for a day. The next night though...

"What do you really think of my glasses?"

"Jesus. They look good."

"You're not just saying that cause I told you too?"

"They're good glasses!"

I'm not convinced. I look for subtle ways to sneak the question in, fish for a compliment. I try to catch him off-guard, bring it up at an odd moment so he can't answer based on what he thinks I think I want to hear.

It's driving him crazy, at least I'm not asking if my glasses make me look fat.

I'm less and less enthused about my glasses. I'm worried they aren't nearly as adorable as I think they are. I still like them, but now I may be falling out of love because C. doesn't like them. I want him to like them. I want him to like me. I want him to think I'm pretty too. If he doesn't like my glasses it might mean he doesn't like me. Maybe he's busy comparing me to other girls who have cute glasses and wear cute clothes and have a round butt instead of a flat one and and and...

Then last night he and I are snuggling in a nice cozy booth. I've made a last ditch effort to love the glasses by forgoing my contacts. Suddenly his nose bumps my glasses particularly hard.

"Hard to cuddle with glasses huh?"

"Yeah. But we've done it before and it didn't suck."

"That's true, we need to practice again."

"Except last time you didn't have a cute pair."

BINGO. He called them cute without my bidding. Completely out of the blue. My glasses have the C. kiss of approval.

They really are the perfect pair. And I picked them out all by myself!