I have often indulged in the sin of Pride. So sue me.
My eyes have been given the noncommittal color of 'hazel'. Not brown, not green, nowhere near the feminine ideal of blue. So they have been punished with the name of a shrubbery.
But mine have a ring of yellow as well, nudging the brown towards green, and bringing the entire ocular equation to the sum of a cat's eyes. And that's what makes me proud. If a cat can look into my eyes and recognize an equal instead of an inferior, well – hand me my cloak of self-esteem, because it's been cold lately.
All through my life, my eyes have dared to be feline. And dare I say it, I believe that they are my best feature.
So that is my sin. And so I wait for my penalty. And it is this: I can't see. My sight is so intensely, so devastatingly, so stunningly Bad that it takes my breath away. It should take your breath away. In fact, are you still out there? Is there anyone left here in the auditorium? Where the devil did I put my glasses?
I've worn glasses since I was 10-11 years old. As I've grown older, along with the legion of other things that have deteriorated just because I've had the nerve to add another number to my age, my eyesight has become worse.
So today I went to see – as well as I could – my optometrist. I endured eye drops and little lights and myriad different lenses to compare and criticize. And in the end I knew the suggestion that was coming, and I welcomed it: bifocals.
My lenses will be split into pastures where my eyesight could find comfort and focus. I'm keeping my old frames, and the new lenses will show no Demaracation Of Shame.
Anyway, what else could I do? My eyes are bad. They need help. Surgery scares me. Contact lenses feel like iron discs pushed under my lids.
Really – it's such a pleasure to have an obvious choice.