Trail of Broken Glasses

I can’t see. That is, I cannot read normal sized typeface without reading glasses. You know, those “readers” you can buy at your favorite variety store.

This all started at about age 47, which just happens to be the year I was born, 1947. I know: weird. The same year I noticed the hair on top of my head was, shall we say, thinning.

That was about the time I decided to drink a gin martini every Friday night. To deal with loss. 

I knew it was a crutch. But after a couple of tini’s I had no interest in reading or thoughts about the top of my head. 

I realized I was experiencing a midlife crisis.

I went to my doctor who was a bald man with a beard whose eyes twinkled like starbursts. His high-resonance voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand erect. I guessed he was about my age and probably Jewish, but that had no bearing on my opinion of him. 

He had a jolly personality and a dog named Betsy who sat on the floor while the doc listened to my inner body with a stethoscope and said I had a "conduction variance" but not to worry. He said if anyone asks me about my heart just tell them about the variance. 

Betsy, a mixed husky breed, sat quietly still. The proverbial fly on the wall.

Hearing about the variance made me nervous. Was that the reason I spaced out so often? 

"What about my eyes?" I said.

"Follow my finger," he said. He proceeded to move his index finger in front of me from the left to right. "Your eyes look fine," he said. "Just pick up some reading glasses and you might consider smoking a little weed. It will relax you and help you to focus."

"Are you serious?" I said.

"Of course I’m serious. Marijuana has proven to be a relaxant for cancer patients."

The sound of the C-word scared the hell out of me. First the variance and now this. I could feel my weakening eyes bugging as if I had seen a ghost. My own.

"You’re jumping to conclusions," he said. 

"Jumping to conclusions!" I said, squinting at him to get a better look. I noticed a bulge in the pocket of his white coat and surmised by its shape that it was a small smoking pipe. "Are you stoned? What’s that pipe doing in your pocket?" I said.

"It’s not a pipe," he said insistently. "It’s a whistle for Betsy. I think you need to take a deep breath and open your heart and mind." 

He never showed me the whistle.

I left the doctor's office and went directly to a local pharmacy where I purchased a pair of 150-strength reading glasses, put them in my shirt pocket and drove home where I opened the local weekly newspaper to read the astrology column. I am partially superstitious, a trait I inherited from my mother who was 100-percent Irish. 

My readers resting on the bridge of my nose, the words on the page popped out as clear as a clean shot of gin: "You have reached a critical point where the stars are aligning for your benefit. Follow your instincts and you will optimize this convergence of heavenly insight."

My instincts told me to load up on readers, which I have done ever since, reeling through the years, from 150-strength to 250. The resulting problem, however,  has been a trail of broken glasses. Either I sit on them,  squash them in my pocket, inadvertently stretch the arms till they break. Or simply can't find them.  Readers are typically made of cheap, brittle plastic. I keep a roll of Scotch Tape handy.

I have a magnifying glass in my desk drawer at home, but that doesn't help when I'm not there. Reading small labels and instructions printed in 3-pt type that only an educated ant might read presents a visual conundrum.

Lucky for me there always seems to be a broken pair of readers nearby. I'm adaptable. I don't smoke anymore. I'm on to the bigger stuff. Midlife crisis is so passe'.