I almost made it to sixty without glasses

Last month, I finally did the inevitable. I went to an optometrist—rather my wife took me to one—to get my eyes checked. I’d been squinting for a while but refusing to acknowledge the obvious. I wasn’t happy, of course. Up until that day, I’d been resisting the visit because I wanted to go without glasses till I turned sixty, which was only seven months away, and boast about it. Now, I was left with a humbling: “I was almost sixty when I got my first glasses.” I suppose I could live with that.

 

The optometrist greeted me with a smile and said, “Sit in that chair,” which I did with some trepidation, never having been to an eye specialist before. But her next words drove all thoughts of fleeing the place from my mind. She turned to me and said, “Can I see your previous glasses?” If ever there was a time when an optometrist’s words felt like a soothing balm on my bruised vanity, this was it. I began to look upon her tribe more favourably.

 

“I have never worn glasses before,” I said proudly, beaming inwardly, as if that meant I wouldn’t need an eye check-up after all.

 

“Never?” she inquired.

 

“Never. First time ever,” I said emphatically, looking for a sign of approval from her. None came. She was being professional about it.

 

I was tempted to say, ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it? I mean, at my age.’ I didn’t tell her that, of course. I had to act my age.

 

Here’s the thing about going to doctors, optometrists included. Our need for reassurance, even flattery, seems to increase in direct proportion to our growing older—normal blood work, a clean bill of health, a cavity-free set of teeth, a near-perfect weight-to-body ratio, blood pressure and sugar levels we can be proud of, cholesterol within range, and that sort of thing. And whenever we are given the all-clear, we step out of the doctor’s office with a spring in our step, look at the world with renewed confidence, pump a fist in the air, and promise ourselves that, henceforth, we’ll make the most of life—while the going is still good.

 

Anyway, the eye doctor spent the next half hour testing my eyesight—making me look through multiple lenses, reading letters on a digital eye chart, shining a strange light into my eyes that startled me with an unexpected pop, and asking me how things looked from near and far. A couple more tests later, she gave me her verdict: I was short-sighted. But only just.

 

“Your eyesight is good for your age. You have a very small number. You only need reading glasses,” she said, handing me a prescription I decided to frame with the inscription—I got my first glasses at sixty. Almost. People frame their degrees and wedding photos, don’t they?

 

As I scanned the various frames in her clinic, I already knew what I wanted. I’d long ago decided that if I ever had to wear glasses, I’d go for Clark Kent’s iconic dark-rimmed rectangular frame. Never mind if they didn’t make me look as intelligent and masculine as Superman’s suited-and-booted alter ego. They would be my first and, hopefully, last pair of glasses.

 

So much for turning sixty with perfect eyesight.

 

© Prashant C. Trikannad