the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

at girls who wear glasses

Tip o' the hat to the late, great Dorothy Parker.

Men are about to stop making passes at me, thank all that's holy.

When I was doing duty officer a couple of weeks ago, I could no longer deny that my eyes just ain't what they used to be. I was sitting in a room full of people and I had one of the best seats in the gallery (no peanut gallery here, I'm afraid, although that would be fun). I had positioned myself where I'd have the best view of the screen available to a person of my lowly rank and position, but as the slides clicked past, I realized that I couldn't read them.

You'd think this would be a no-brainer, but it isn't. When you've never needed glasses and you're intimately familiar with the briefing, it's easy for this simple fact to escape you: you can't actually read what's in front of you. I found myself closing one eye and then the other, then squinting hard with both, then glancing around to see if anyone else was having trouble. Nope. They're all sipping their chai, taking notes, and watching the proceedings like normal. I guessed that ruled out "bad lighting."

Mich has been telling me this for years--a fact she mentioned helpfully when I told her I had an appointment with the eye doc. I'd be reading my computer screen (for the last two years, easily) and squinting and she'd say it. "Nah," I'd say. "My eyes are tired." She'd say ok, and life would go on.

The next day, I might be lying in bed and reading a book with one eye closed. "You need glasses," she'd say. I'd just put down the book and shut out the light.

I could still get around ok. I could still function. I just occasionally had trouble. To her eternal credit, she doesn't nag or harp. She makes an observation and that's the end of it. Until the next time she makes the observation, I mean. But she never gets nasty about it. She just has that resigned well-you'll-figure-it-out-eventually approach that works best with me.

I didn't have the chance to see an eye doc two weeks ago, anyway. The whole country was on holiday. So the next week, when I was about to embark on a Munich adventure with two of my favorite people in the world (Alvarez and Rummel--more on them later, and if I forget, remind me; I have pictures), I popped into our medical aid station to ask for an appointment. Our medical dude made an appointment for me for today downtown.

On my way to Munich, I realized that it would be much easier to find my way through foreign airports if I could at least focus on the direction signs, even if I didn't speak the language. Surely there would be some hints, right? Like, "Centrum" is pretty universal in Europe--it means you'll eventually emerge in the center of the city, which is where most of the cool stuff is. And on your way to the airport, there might be a mini-airplane on the sign, right? I saw blurs.

By the time I felt my way through the Istanbul and Munich airports, I was actually looking forward to getting glasses.

So today, I went in all my I-have-a-cold-don't-touch-me glory to the eye doctor, whose office occupies the second (that is, third) story of an apartment building in Alsan(j)ak. I studied the map carefully then walked straight to it.

I'm learning my way around.

The waiting room was full. I pulled out my trusty Kindle and settled in. Ten minutes later, they came and got me.

I think my last eye exam was in 2002. Back when I was a butterbar, I was having headaches at work and the doc thought it was probably eye strain, so he prescribed glasses. I wore them a few times, but I didn't notice any difference in what I could see or the headaches. As it turned out, taking routine breaks was far more effective, so I put them in a drawer and there they stayed.

Today, I expected the standard eye exam, where they ask you to read letters on a chart. They don't do it like that anymore. Well...this guy doesn't.

First, he outfitted me with a mouth and nose cover that looped around my ears so I wouldn't contaminate everything. Those little things are pretty nice. I mean, you can cough and sneeze and drip at will, and people don't treat you like you have the plague.

Next, he put me in a seat where I was aligned with a row of ocular test machines of various types. He ran me through each one assembly-line style. There was still a little chart with letters, but I was asked to identify which of two views was better until he pinpointed the problem. It was fairly quick and easy, and it relieved my fears a bit, since I was wondering if I'd be reduced to trying to think of the right words for the international phonetic alphabet, which I've never learned properly.*

* Even today, when I have to use it, I might say something random in the middle of the letters, like: Zulu - Papa - Bravo - uhhhh, Elephant - Juliet.....

I finished that part, then was returned to the waiting room, where one of his assistants promptly tripped over my feet. Her eyes were probably tired.

They fetched me again in a few minutes to take a look at my optical nerves via more awesome equipment that turned my eyeball scans (and in particular, the optical nerve bit) into 3-D images that could be turned at will so they looked like giant, colorful sinkholes.

Maybe my optical nerves aren't supposed to look like that.

I went back to the waiting room, then was brought into another room to play a push-the-button-if-you-see-a-green-light game. There were no magical mushrooms, however, and no intermediate reward system. The only thing that occasionally brought me back into focus was when the assistant told me I was doing a good job. Feedback: it's important.

Then I was returned to the waiting room--which was still full--where I promptly went to sleep. This was taking longer than I expected.

I was awakened after a while (?) and brought back for more tests. It seems that I'm ripe for glaucoma, but my interocular pressure is normal. He was just making sure.

And obviously, I need glasses. I now have a prescription that I don't know how to read (It's in English; I just can't decipher eye doc lingo). Tomorrow, I'll find a way to get some glasses carved. I may need either bifocals (which might make me sick, or so the doc warns), or just two pair (short and long distances). My left eye is worse than my right. That's all I know at the moment.

And no more guys making passes at me. I hope.

It happened two weeks ago. Some lug was following me home (I walk a lot around here, and for the most part, people are friendly, respectful, and even protective). He seemed to feel he had a chance with me, because I didn't scream at him to sod off when he first made eye contact. I'm too friendly for my own good sometimes. Or maybe I'm too friendly for the good of others.

He kept following me and talking to me long after I'd told him to go away. I kept repeating NO (and he knew what it meant). We were running out of well-lit, well-populated area and he was following me, and I recall settling into the idea that something interesting was about to happen. I wasn't afraid. Well, not for me. I just didn't want to be hassled, and I don't like hurting people.

He continued with the laying on of hands and I continued with the pushing away of hands and saying, "No, go away." I didn't realize I'd put him in a wrist lock until I heard him yelp. It was strange, really. I haven't trained in the arts for years, but it was right there where I left it, and I made my move out of pure instinct, like a threatened animal. Only, I didn't growl and spit and hiss or bark or anything. Although that would have been cool. I'd have loved to see his face....

When I realized what I was doing, I took both hands and--his wrist still locked--pushed him firmly away. This time, he kept walking in the direction I'd pushed him.

So yeah. I could do without that nonsense, too. But it will be spectacular to simply be able to see clearly again.

d