Four-eyes

For a long time, I've been having some vision trouble.  Annoying?  Yes.  Life-threatening? No.  I got new glasses earlier this year, and from the moment I put them on, I told the eye doc that they weren't strong enough.  Did he listen?  No.  Did he agree with me?  No.  

His office people attempted to convince me that contacts were what I needed.  There's a racket, yeah?  They've got you for the contacts, then solution, and all of the other paraphernalia that goes with them.  Far more expensive, to my way of thinking, then just a simple pair of specs.  But I played along, and we tried several different brands of contacts, several different strengths...higher magnifications (or whatever the hell the +1 or +1.50 means) lower prescriptions, this strength in this eye, that strength in another.  Finally, after playing this game for about three weeks, I finally said enough.  Just give me a damn pair of glasses.

They did, but they weren't the right glasses.  Urgh!

I complained about the glasses, especially at the end of long days, because by then, they were totally useless.  Cute, yes, they were adorable.  But as far as helping me see?  Um, not so much.  On the advice of a co-worker, I went to see another eye doctor, one who spent more than ten minutes with me.  The prognosis?  I need progressive lenses.  Which is a very polite way of saying, "Sweetie, you need bifocals."  Thanks.  So much.  

The silly thing is that the first time I went to the eye doctor's as an adult, at 25 years old, they told me to get bifocals, and I, the smart-ass know-it-all, said, "You've got to be kidding me.  Bifocals?  I am 25 years old!!!  No way."

Last year, when I was unemployed, I spent a lot of time on the computer, job hunting, screwing around online, gabbing to friends in fandom, re-writing my resume, drafting innumerable cover letters, writing my book, blogging, and generally trying to figure out to do with my life.  It was then that I noticed my vision deteriorating, but as I was unemployed, there wasn't much I could do about it.  I bought drugstore glasses, getting stronger and stronger ones, and tried to make do.

The progressive lenses showed up on Friday last week, and I've spent the weekend trying to figure them out.  I am reminded strongly of when my dad first got glasses, and he would peer through the bottom of them, trying to read the newspaper.  The tops of my new glasses are for distance.  So I can read street signs, and recognize people I know at 20 feet away.  The middle section is supposedly for the computer, and the very bottom for reading books, magazines, the teeny-tiny ingredient lists on things in the supermarket.  So yes, not just bifocals, but TRI-focals.

They make me tad more clumsy then I already am, which is bad, because y'all: I don't need help being clumsy.  I manage that just fine on my own, really.  There's a slight curve in my peripheral vision that makes it look like you can see the curvature of the earth.  Freaky.

The tech at the eye doctor's recommended that I use extreme caution on stairs until I get used to them.  Fab, because I don't fall down enough staircases already, right?  I'm glad that she forewarned me, though, because taking a header down my own stairs at home is something I've managed to AVOID doing thus far, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I like 'em, though.  I'll get used to this whole tilt-your-head-to-see-up-close game soon enough.  (I hope!)

I was thinking about my school days, and I was enough of an outcast and social misfit through junior high (too smart by half) that I can only imagine what adding glasses to that would have done.  Now, I look geeky, studious, whatever you want to call it, and that's OK with me.  I like looking smart.

Now, where did that staircase go?

Blades of idiocy, not glory.

Once upon a time, I went rollerblading all the time. With my bad-boy trainer R, with my sisters, with friends, even all alone. I used to enjoy it, but with both sisters being far away, the skates have been forgotten in recent years.

DH and I cleaned our garage as part of that whole attic-cleaning madness, and the skates were rediscovered in a box in the garage, which is where they've been since we moved to this house at the end of 2004.

When I woke up today, I hurt too much from a combination of running and Pilate's, so I decided that since today was a rare beautiful day, I'd go out blading instead of running. Which, in hindsight, might have been mistake #1.

I pulled the skates from their box and tried them on. Yes, they still fit, and yes, I had no trouble skating around the library floor, which is currently cement. We ripped out the carpeting and are going to install laminate flooring this weekend. Anyway. No trouble getting around on them.

There are several park trails within walking distance of my home, but I decided that crossing a major road on skates for the first time in 3 years wasn't a bright idea, so instead I hopped in the car and drove to another trail that is closed to vehicular traffic and is paved.

Once the skates were on, and I got into the parking lot successfully from the car, I had no trouble navigating on them. Soon, I had a good rhythm down, with the wheels of the skates going "whirrrr, whirrr" underneath me, the sun shining through in dappled patches on the trail, and the wind in my super-short hair. Lovely. I did about a half mile without a thought.

When I would go out skating with the bad-boy trainer, years and years ago, we would always call out to people we were about to pass, so that we didn't startle them as we flew by, saying things like "Coming up on your right!" or "Passing on your left!" and I still do that, because I don't want to scare the bejebus out of anyone.

I passed a woman and her dog on the left, then careened around her to pass a pair of women on the right, calling out to each of them. As I passed the pair of women, one of them turned to look at me and brushed her arm against mine. Completely unintentionally, I assure you. She didn't reach out to me, just turned in time to see me whiz by. I was startled enough to take my attention off of the skates for one second...and I was down on the ground instantly.

I landed hard on the heel of my left hand and on my left hip, a jarring shock. I was breathless for a second while the woman apologized and agonized over causing my fall. "No worries," I told her, "I haven't been up on these for three years, and I expected to fall at least once. I'm OK." I declined their offer of assistance and managed to get to my feet without falling again. (Amazingly.)

I continued the trail, and managed about 3-1/2 miles, and enjoyed all but about the last half mile. Once back at my car, with the skates off, I realized how sore I was. I've spent most of the rest of the day trying to not put much weight on my left hip as I sit down. I'm going to have a fantastic bruise.