A Simple Answer
You had better hold on to your glasses.
No, not those vaguely cylindrical objects into which liquids are poured for the civilized consumption of the imbiber, but the optical devices which sit atop your nose, reminding you of the fallibility of the species, our relentless pace at age, our deteriorating eyesight.
Spectacles.
So it fell to me last night, at the end of a glorious evening of excellent food and drink in the company of relatives so distant and delightful that I could nearly consider them the dearest of friends, that I misplaced my glasses.
This morning, the pre-departure checklist (yes, I do have a day job that takes me out of house) frustrated at the outset: Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch.
No spectacles.
A hard swallow at a gulp of air, a comb through the absurd amount of hair I still carry round my head (if only to annoy my balding colleagues), a quickened shine on the leather worn at my feet, and the instant recognition that all those other items so seldomly required – testicles, wallet and watch – were all in place before setting out for the day in the office.
Except for my glasses.
And so, blindly through the morning and squinting at every shadow in the corners of the places I inhabit -- incapable of seeing for the lack of that which I sought -- the concept at last came to me.
Contact Lenses.
You had better hold on to your glasses.
No, not those vaguely cylindrical objects into which liquids are poured for the civilized consumption of the imbiber, but the optical devices which sit atop your nose, reminding you of the fallibility of the species, our relentless pace at age, our deteriorating eyesight.
Spectacles.
So it fell to me last night, at the end of a glorious evening of excellent food and drink in the company of relatives so distant and delightful that I could nearly consider them the dearest of friends, that I misplaced my glasses.
This morning, the pre-departure checklist (yes, I do have a day job that takes me out of house) frustrated at the outset: Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch.
No spectacles.
A hard swallow at a gulp of air, a comb through the absurd amount of hair I still carry round my head (if only to annoy my balding colleagues), a quickened shine on the leather worn at my feet, and the instant recognition that all those other items so seldomly required – testicles, wallet and watch – were all in place before setting out for the day in the office.
Except for my glasses.
And so, blindly through the morning and squinting at every shadow in the corners of the places I inhabit -- incapable of seeing for the lack of that which I sought -- the concept at last came to me.
Contact Lenses.
posted by cjb at
12:56
2 Comments:
The old crucifictory formula: Up, Down, Left and Right.
Keys are always in my pocket. Southeast, that would be, when looking at Polaris.
Mas mal perdi os óculos, Andrea, e apenas começo a paquerar a coisa de lente -- coisa que sempre me deu calafrios, meter uma geringonça no olho -- e você já sugere operação... Brrrrr. Puro medo.
By
cjb, at 12/10/06 16:35
Pois devo lhe dizer, caríssimo, que sou operada (frase estranha essa...). E já há 20 anos. Operei no tempo do bisturi de diamantes, não foi a laser não. Sim, sou bem corajosa. Ou consigo odiar os óculos mais do que avaliar os perigos de tirá-los. O fato, meu querido, é que agora, the fucking age está me trazendo de volta o velho horror. Começo a afastar as coisas de mim para ler, sabe como é? Então. Meu marido, com sua super miopia assumidíssima, me disse com uma ponta de ironia: é benzinho, acho que o jeito é ir no oftalmo e colocar óculos para leitura. Bom, já uso um pra dirigir há mais de um ano. São os velhos monstros saindo de baixo da cama. Catso!
By
Anônimo, at 13/10/06 09:30
Postar um comentário
<< Home