For someone who has worn them since the 5th grade, the occasion of receiving new glasses is something of a vernal equinox. It denotes a passage from old to new, as if my eyes were awakening from a long winter into the fresh green of spring.
Or perhaps it’s simply the fact that I utterly, thoroughly, and completely despise my current pair and can’t wait to donate them to whichever relief agency will send them to a Talibani khalif.
We’ve just switched optometrists. We went to arrange eye appointments (75% of us require eye care in this family) the other day and found to our initial dismay that our coverage had changed. I automatically select the same health plan every year during enrollment because Mrs. Woody is thrilled with her current physician and has no desire to rock that particular boat. So I simply ignore the enrollment forms (tantamount to selecting Same-Ol’, Same-Ol’ Health Plan) every year. What I didn’t notice this last time was that our vision coverage had changed. And our now-former optometrist doesn’t accept the new coverage.
All was not lost, however. Last year when we participated in our Stake’s production of “Savior of the World” we became acquainted with a very nice gentleman from another ward who happens to be an optometrist. The fact that I actually remembered this man nearly a year afterward gives me hope that I haven’t yet lost too many gray cells.
Through all my previous visits to eye docs in my adult life, the common thread has been that my eyes were expected to deteriorate over the years, and thus far they have performed to expectation. This last prescription was perhaps the worst yet and was my second iteration of “progressive” lenses. (Progressive lenses are lenses that take from other lenses in order to redistribute the wealth. Conservative lenses simply tell your eyes to work harder.)
I may have mentioned that I loathe this pair of cheaters. It wasn’t the prescription, really. It was the “reflective coating” that they coaxed me into trying. The main selling point was, as I recall, the ability of the lenses to not turn your eyes into high-beam headlights when having your picture taken. As Mrs. Woody is a devout Scrapbooker (if they had a clergy, she would be an archbishop), she much prefers to see my eyes in photos. So I got the coating. And instantly regretted it.
For the past two-plus years, I have had a dickens of a time cleaning these glasses. Nothing works. I was given one or two of those small spray bottles of lens cleaning solution. Useless. The typical lens cleaning cloth has been likewise a waste of good flannel. Even my old standby of Windex and a paper towel made nary a dent in the grime that seems to accumulate within minutes of the last cleaning.
Add to this perfidy the fact that this frame, which I chose primarily because it was evocative of Harry Potter (don’t ask) is allergic to its own hardware. Apparently it was the recipient of donor screws and failed to take anti-rejection medication, because I have to tighten these things about every second or third day. I’ve already lost two screws, and the replacement that I’m living with now is a full 1/32″ too long. Looks like an aerial for a shortwave radio receiver over my left eye. To me, anyway.
Now, I have to tell you that our good Doctor told me that, after having deteriorated every two years for the past 20 or more, my eyes had not really changed except for a tiny bit in the up-close range since my last prescription. I didn’t really need new glasses, but of course it was my call.
Oh, no, I assured him. I needed new ones. The sooner, the better.
So they’re on their way. Hopefully will be here before we board a train in a couple of weeks for a trip up north to visit our dear friends in southern Washington.
It would be nice to actually see them this year.
