Not Old

I had an optometrist appointment last weekend as I needed to get new glasses. Oh, my old ones were fine. It was just that the frame was a little loose. Possibly because they had been, at various times, set on fire, used to disarm a ninja, stepped on (multiple times), and once thrown at an emu.

So I arrived at the combination ophthalmologist office/glasses-monger location and after a brief wait, was shown in for my appointment.

An attractive young woman led me to a bank of machines arranged in a semi-circle with a stool in the middle. I sat down and for the next few minutes, was directed to look into the machines, press buttons, and not pick my nose quite so much.

I kept asking what the machines were for and received various explanations, such as: this one tests for glaucoma. This one tests your peripheral vision. This one temporarily removes your eyeball and replaces it with a used golfball, etc.

“Wow,” I remarked at one point. “I remember when they only had the one machine for glaucoma.”

“Oh,” she replied, as she scribbled something on a piece of paper. “A lot of our older clients say that.”

I chuckled, because, frankly, she was cute.

I was then shown into the ophthalmologist’s office proper, where the doctor was waiting. This guy looked to be all of twenty-five and he quickly started the exam. First, he had me remove my glasses and read the smallest line on the chart I could.

“What chart?” was my answer, which seemed to amuse him. We then went through the standard lens-flipping routine and within twenty-minutes, my prescription was ascertained.

NOTE: I’m not sure what my actual prescription is. The piece of paper he gave me just said ‘Patient pretty much blind. Probably navigates by sense of smell.’

So then I was off to the lens person, another attractive young lady who helped me pick out some frames and choose the various options for my lenses. This was going along well until she got to the part about the bifocals.

“And many of our older patients,” she said, as she held up a sample, “prefer the no-line bifocals versus the traditional kind.”

That was it. A line in the sand had to be drawn. “Oh,” I said, smiling. “It’ll be a few more years before I need to think about bifocals.”

“Sir,” she said. “You’re holding the brochure three inches from your face while you hold your glasses up.”

“I like to smell the paper,” I replied. “We used to make it by han . . . buy it in bulk. Nope, never made paper. Or owned an 8-Track. Or have pictures of myself in bell bottoms.

“But with the no-line bifocals, no one will even notice you’re wearing them.”

“Reall- No, sorry. I don’t need bifocals. I’m not that old.”

“Well, okay,” she said, as she continued to show me more options. Apparently, there are lenses now that not only change color in the sun, they can block military grade lasers.

So, I got my glasses ordered and walked back out into the afternoon sun to my truck, which was probably older than the young lady who’d just taken my order. Some kids skate-boarded by, but I successfully resisted the urge to yell at them to get off my lawn.

‘Cause I’m not that old yet, dammit.

Cheers,

-Jason