After all of last weekend’s running into walls and doors, I decided it was time to see an eye doctor. A professional one, at that. At this point in life, it feels right to go to actual physicians and care providers. No longer do I have to patronize the guy behind the dollar store who claims to be an eye-doctor. Sure, the inside of his van is nice, but his service is too hands on. Going to the optometrist is also one more stop on my headache tour. In the of name of getting rid of headaches, I’ve seen too many doctors, taken too many prescriptions. Sure, there may have been a few dollar store doctors along the way. When you’ve had a migraine since 1978, this starts to sound reasonable.
The optometrist explained all of the ways in which my eyes are over-working and the need at my age for reading glasses. At almost 40 years of age, he explained, I’m fortunate to have the remaining vision left in me. The almost 40 speech is one of my favorites. Doctors started reminding me I was almost 40 in 1994. The optometrist prescribed me reading glasses, with the idea in mind that I’d actually read something. Great. There are tons of you’re almost 40 and incontinent pamphlets I’ve been dying to check out. Later I was escorted to the wall of frames. This was the best part. I picked out some super stylish Sally Jessie Raphael frames. The key with reading glasses is to look as startled as possible all the time, as if wearing removable Botox. I purchased the optional chain to hang the readers on. Now I just walk around greeting people like Abe Vigoda on Red Bull (7 to 8 words per minute) and trying to be cool with my new “serious” specs. It’s going to take more than glasses and advanced age to make me be serious. The glasses are a start, though.