Maybe the hardest thing in writing is simply to tell the truth about things as we see them.
I get frustrated; then I get testy.
It starts at the bank where a quick stop turns into something more complicated. We arrive to find it has been transformed into an automated futuristic place with no tellers and machines that no longer allow me to do what I need to do. A receptionist calls someone from the back office and (after having to prove to him that the machine doesn’t do what I need it to) he walks us outside to the back of the building where I complete my transaction at the drive through machine (!).
Next stop: the optometrist’s office for a field test and an exam. The test and exam go well and I commiserate with my optometrist (the same one I’ve had since I was eighteen—yes, I traveled back here to see him even when we were living in Washington) about his struggle with the newly installed computer system.
Then we talk about my needs.
I want a pair of glasses I can wear when I’m wearing contact lenses; the hassle of putting readers on and taking them off, and looking at the world over the top of them when I’m wearing them, is getting old. Progressive readers seem like a perfect solution to me. He asks why I don’t just wear my glasses. He doesn’t get it.
But he walks me out to the optician and describes to him what I’m looking for. The optician and I talk it over, and I learn that, with my prescription, a pair of prescription progressive readers would cost as much as a pair of my regular glasses. In short: a lot.
He presents an alternative solution: he’s pretty sure that London Drugs sells non-prescription progressive lens glasses. Okay. That’s worth a try.
So we make our way over there and, sure enough, there are Foster Grant multi-focus reading glasses: four styles for men, and four for women. I’m not enamoured with how any of them look on my face, and the top part of the lens is half-strength for reading, not the clear i was looking for.
Still, I try them on, and give consideration to two pair. Then it becomes too much. I’m frustrated at not finding exactly what I wanted and incapable of making a good decision.
And with that I walk away.
A low-grade headache that’s been building since the field test contributes to my discontent. A stop at a local nursery to look for a perennial for my front flower bed does nothing to improve my mood. A visit to the garden to water makes me feel marginally better, but I remain just a little bit bristly.
It’s silly. I know it.
I’ve allowed a minor frustration to colour my mood and have chosen not to shake it off. I know that too.
Sometimes it happens.
At home, we eat a hurried supper and Gerry heads out for a scheduled evening hike with his club, leaving me to bristle at home alone.
# # #
At some point I’ll probably make the choice to give up contacts and switch to wearing glasses full-time. That time is not now.
I could still make the choice to spend a stupid amount of money for a pair of prescription progressive readers that would do exactly what I am looking for—but I doubt it.
For now, I’ll continue to dance with the many pair of readers I own. In the grand scheme, it’s certainly not the worst problem to have.
More importantly, I’ll consider why I choose to allow a minor frustration to freeze me in a vortex of bristly indecision.
# # #
Maybe you have an idea. If you have less-than-perfect vision, like me, what’s your solution?