Today I went for an eye exam to see if I can tolerate contacts again. Three and a half years ago my eyes went on protest. They were very tired of wearing contacts since the 8th grade and insisted that I air them out for awhile. My glasses began to grow on me so a year stretched into three plus.
I was very happy with glasses until my husband said to me at dinner last week, while I was cleaning them, “It’s nice to see your eyes like that. I miss them.” Then the next day my toddler, in cahoots with Daddy, pulled them off the counter while I was washing my face and cracked the temple piece. Because I never learn from these things, the same thing happened the next day in the very same way, except this time she torqued the other side. Somewhere between flattery and sabotage, my family managed to get me to the eye doctor today.
While glasses still seem relatively new to me, I forget that I have been wearing them for exactly half of my son’s life and all of my toddler’s. So, when I emerged from the contact station without the familiar black-rimmed spectacles, my son said, very earnestly, “Wow, Mom, you look just like an alien. [Pause/stare] But the longer I’m looking at you, the less you look like one.” I know exactly what he means.