Hate the motherfuckers. Gettin’ old, shortsighted… put me out on the sea, ask me what stands on the sails of a ship two miles away, and I’ll tell it to you. If only I could read a book at two miles distance . . . unfortunately, the print is too fucking small. Put it in my face then, that is the way one reads books, after all . . . well, uhhh . . can’t see a damned thing.
It’s progressive. By now I have the feeling it’s geometrical. The more I try the worse it gets. It’s hell for someone who likes to read. Alright, alright, dammit, gimme the reading glasses, fuck it. But no, that is not the end of the tale.
1.0? 1.5? 2.0? How far can it go? Makes me feel like I’m running on borrowed time.
It’s endless, I can tell you. With each number you descend further in to reader’s hell. Your glasses get thicker and thicker, until there is no glass thick enough. I haven’t reached that point yet, but I am sure it is coming.
Little frames around your field of vision, that is what drives me insane (well, it doesn’t, but I like to think it might). But it is definitely annoying. Very. Not only that, it makes you feel like an old man. Well, hell, fuck that, don’t mind being old or young or whatever, but still…
In any case, there you are, in the restaurant; forgot to take your glasses with you, didn’t you now? Can’t possibly hold the menu two miles away, can you now? Even if you could, the print is simply too small to read at two miles distance, isn’t it now? What to do? There you are.
Slowly, oh so slowly, you learn from this experience to always have reading glasses with you, in some convenient slot or pocket. Summer presents an obstacle, because it’s so damned hot you can’t even stand to carry a jacket with a pocket where your glasses might abide. To carry a jacket adds to the exertion of daily life, which increases, infinitesimally, the heat you have to tolerate. It’s already intolerable, so… you hang the glasses on your shirt. Talk about feeling like an old man: Not only do I need reading glasses, but they are hanging on my shirt for every asshole to see.
Not only that, you develop habits connected with you glasses. You clean them, compulsive fuck that you are. That is to say, at every convenient moment, or even at inconvenient moments, you take those motherfucking glasses from your shirt, blow on them, and rub them clean with your shirt. Preferably in the middle of important conversations with people who you can’t afford to look like a compulsive old shortsighted fool in front of. Oh, well, too late. Might as well fess up.