The “sphere” of my left eye is -8.75. This means that I see at ten feet what a perfect-sighted person sees at 87.5 feet. To say this another way, without my glasses I can’t make out the top letter on an eye chart.
One morning when I was seventeen, having broken my glasses the previous night, I convinced myself that my job was so easy and repetitive (I worked at a Roy Rogers) that I could manage with them. On my way to work I walked into the pole of a No Parking sign.
Later that day, while scooping French fries, I saw a brown shape dart past my foot.
“A mouse!” I cried.
It was a hamburger bun.
My glasses are a part of me. I put them on first thing each morning and take them off last thing each night. Otherwise the only times I remove them are:
- before cleaning them
- before sleep
- before showering
- before swimming
- before, or sometimes during, sex
Without my glasses, the functional world is reduced to what’s about twelve inches from my eyes. The rest is still there – or out there, really – but it’s a badly blurred version of itself.
I believe I’m introverted in part because of my eyes. Living in a fog turns one inward.