Eye See, said the Blind Man

I have always taken some pride in the fact that while my mom, dad, and both sisters were sporting glasses, I never had to. It has become pretty clear to me lately, however, that my sight is failing, somewhat. Don't get me wrong, I can still see.  Things are just a little fuzzy around the edges. I've found recently that it is a lot harder to feel confident about where you're headed if you can't see the signs in front of you, especially if it's dark outside. It's also a little embarrassing that any person within 15 feet of me could read along with me on my Kindle based on the fact that I have the font so large that there are only about seven words on each page. My arm gets sore from reading because of the speed at which I have to flip to the next page in order for a complete sentence to form itself correctly in my brain. All these things made it necessary for me to take a little trip to see my ophthalmologist. He recommended bifocals. I wasn't surprised, or even all that upset, but it did feel a little like I had crossed some imaginary line that people don't want to cross.

Picking out the glasses was horrendous. It didn't help that my moral support was Larry. He kept bringing me big thick rimmed nerd glasses to try on. I can't decide if he thought I might look good in them, or if he was just messing with me. If his past behavior is any indication, my best guess is that he was just being a butt. At any rate, I did finally decide on some frames, but again, the experience was kind of underwhelming. I didn't particularly love them, but they seemed to feel like the least evil of all the evils.

It took me three attempts to go pick up my spiffy new specs, but that's a story for another day.  Once I had them in my hand, the nice lady told me to put them on.  When I did, let me just tell you that I could NOT SEE SQUAT.  I kept saying "This doesn't seem right", but she kept saying "You're just not used to it yet".  All the way home I thought that there was a giant possibility I may never get used to it. Once I got home I took a closer look at them.  What I found was that the left lens was significantly thicker than the right one.  I didn't remember the doctor telling me that I had any worse vision in one eye than in the other. I put them back on and covered up the left lens with my hand.  WHAT?!  Oh my word. The world was clear.  I could even see the words on the TV! I came PERILOUSLY CLOSE to being excited about glasses. So, I guess my solution was to walk around with my hand pressed over my left eye? Not workable.

After talking with the eye people and taking them back, it was determined that they were all wrong.  Heck of it is that I TRIED to tell them that in the first place.  People just annoy me sometimes.  At any rate, I now have these glasses on my face and I find that they are only mediocre looking at best. It's discouraging. But, I can see.  Clearly.  And I can read.  Easily.  It's actually very cool....and so very NOT cool.

No Rest For The Weary

So, I've been feeling a little sickly the past two days and it's interfering with my sleep.  If you know me at all, you know that sleep is essential to my way of life and my witty, vibrant demeanor.  

Two days ago, my throat was on fire and I couldn't breathe very well, so against my better judgement I took one of those four hour Sudafed.  I did it again twice more that day even though this is unheard of behavior for me.  Sudafed just isn't my friend.  It makes me crazy and no matter what time I take it, I know that it will keep me from sleeping. It's a known, proven fact and of course, that's exactly what happened.  I was up all night and miserable, just like I told myself I would be each and every time I swallowed one of those little red magical pills.  So yesterday, I chose to go without medicine completely.  I intended to sleep that night without fail, even if I had to sniff and hack my way through the day in order to achieve it.  By the end of my work day, a coworker stopped by my office, stuck his head in and said "Aren't you dead yet?", which led me to believe that my hacking and sniffling might possibly have been bothering him.  I decided not to worry about it because I would indeed be sleeping tonight and just the thought of that made everything better. 

  

I did fall asleep last night and I stayed asleep all the way up to 1:30 AM.  In case you don't know, that is NOT an entire night.  1:30 AM was when my body woke me up violently and told me that it needed to cough so much that I would NOT be returning to sleep.  Because I am a benevolent and kind spouse, I chose to grab my pillow and make my way to the den in order to lounge on the couch for the duration of my episode.  It was dark in there.  When I got up close to the couch I realized the thing that I didn't realize on the other side of the room in the dark.  My sweet, sweet husband had folded loads and loads of laundry and these folded clothes were touching every single inch of that couch.  I couldn't just shove them off and lay down and I wasn't about to carefully move them anywhere.  I certainly wasn't going to put them up or anything. Just like that fox in Aesop's fable, I decided I didn't really want to lay on that couch anyhow.  It would probably be even better for me to sit in that chair over there.  It was fluffy and big and just fine enough for me die in.  Unfortunately, upon close inspection, the chair was also full of things, all belonging to Paige.  A tripod for photography, a giant shiny black bag full of who knows what, her school  backpack, etc.  Again, it seemed futile, especially when I was so tired and miserable.  But where?  Where could I lay my weary head and get on with this night?  AH!  The spare bedroom/library has a couch!  A very tiny love seat kind of couch, but a couch nonetheless.  That would do.

I made my way down the dark hall, clutching my pillow and dragging along behind me a red Ole Miss throw blanket that I picked up along the way.  I'm happy to report that the couch was clean and happy and ready for me to fall on.  I was pretty happy even though I didn't exactly fit there and my legs kind of went numb from hanging off the arm rests.  It was a victory.

This morning, when Larry woke and asked me how I slept, I began to tell him this tale and right after the part about going down the dark hall, he tried to complete my story by interjecting "and you went into Patrick's room and slept on the bed."  ....  Here's how the emotions played out.  Firstly, dumbfounded and silent as that sank in.  Secondly, amazed that I didn't think of that myself.  Thirdly, mad as an old wet hen (which as I understand it is very angry).  All I could do was look at him and say, "No.  No, that's not what I did, but I certainly should have.  That would have been a smashing idea."