Time was I didn't need help seeing close-up objects. As long as I could see what I was kissing, for example, I'd have a go at my wife. Then my near-sightedness gave way to near-blindness and I discovered that I had been smooching a pillow for years. This may explain my wife's feelings of distance and isolation, and why most of my wife's feedback was muffled. That, and I can still taste the chicken feathers.
But I've made concessions. I've now purchased several three-packs of Wal-Mart reading glasses, and as I write this blog I'm staring down at a pile of these cheaters--a preponderance of crumpled plastic that serves at-the-ready whenever I read a book or newspaper.
I can't imagine being blind, however. How horrible it would be if I were unable to behold my wife's beauty, or my kids, or to gaze upon the pots of swill I cook up most evenings. If I couldn't see, I wouldn't know how long to stir the mini-raviolis. I'd have to write this blog by braille.
Soon I will be blind as a bat. I'll be like Stevie Wonder, calling up Becky every day to say, "I just called to say, 'I Love You' . . . and I mean it from the bottom of my heart."
There's not a pair of reading glasses out there that can save me from future embarrassment. Just last week I was sitting in a college dormitory cafeteria, reading a book, glasses pressed down over my nose, and a beautiful young lady walked up to me and asked, "Is that a good book?"
I didn't know what to say. I didn't remember I was reading a book, couldn't recall the title, and before I could get my glasses off and regain my bearings, she was gone.
I'm having the same problems at home with my wife. I miss her a lot. And every time I look up I'm staring at a pillow.
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