Jackie McGregor on the perils of less than perfect peepers
I surreptitiously peeked around the corner to see if the coast was clear, then sidled up to the shelf. I was in my local library, furtively lurking around the large print books section.
The idea of reading a book again without wearing glasses was intoxicating. I was alarmed by the excitement turning the pages and being able to skim without eyewear generated in me.
The print was gargantuan! As much as I’d enjoyed the experience of reading without specs, I was far too vain to borrow a large print book, even with the self-service option, no one would know, but I would! It felt too, ‘elderly’, like I was one step away from a Werther’s Originals addiction.
I can put my kindle to its largest font but it’s not as enjoyable as reading a physical book, especially as a large font means getting only a few words at a time on screen.
I desperately miss having perfect peepers. When I was younger, I thought I’d always have perfect vision, but time had the last laugh. Everything’s becoming blurry, from food on my plate to people’s faces.
Here’s the science bit: as we age, we develop presbyopia which is a natural part of ageing. It is the gradual loss of your eyes’ ability to focus on nearby objects.
Presbyopia starts around the age of 40 and continues to worsen until approximately the age of 65.
My fading eyesight has become a source of tension between myself and my husband. He finds it irritating when we are in shops and I hold items right up to my nose, I find if I then squint, I can make out the prices. It’s not an attractive stance but it works for me.
“Put your glasses on,” he constantly prompts, then I am forced for the umpteenth time to explain that I can’t walk around wearing them, as they put me off balance (plus I don’t like wearing them in public!) oh, the vanity, as if anyone even cares! Part of me is desperately trying to hang on to some illusion of youth.
“You could get contacts, or bifocals,” hubby suggests, “you need more than reading glasses!”
How very dare he! I thought, but I hate to admit he’s right. He hammered the idea home after I got into the wrong car with a stranger one night, whilst he was sat in the adjacent motor.
Last week, we were ambling around a shopping mall, I was absentmindedly perusing nightwear when hunger struck. Linking my arm through hubby’s I steered him towards the door to find a café,
“I have rumbles in my tumbles,” I announced. I felt him beginning to wriggle quite forcibly. My eyes no doubt dilated in shock, when I found I was man-handling an elderly, panic-stricken woman, as hubby looked on from a distance.
She was wearing the same-coloured jacket as him. I then added insult to injury by declaring to the poor woman,
“I’m so sorry, I thought you were my husband!”
Realising I could no longer turn a blind eye to my vision problems, I spontaneously popped into an optician’s and asked the lady behind the counter, “Could I book an eye test please? I think I need new glasses.”
“You certainly do madam,” he replied, “this is a hairdressers!”