Vision Quest

My "farsighted" vision into the future had always seemed crystal clear: in my old age I would become the crazy Bat-Lady-With-a-Cat in the creepy cob-webbed mansion atop the Hollywood Hills, infamously known for my capricious youthful antics in Tinsel Town, notorious for my outlandish style of living; rumored through the years to be (by local terrified children who dare not approach my vast, gated, gargoyle-protected Estate) the supposed axe-wielding eccentric wealthy lunatic who parades around in a black tattered wedding gown and smeary blood-red lipstick; the frightful misanthrope who sucks down vodka like water, engages in casual conversation with inanimate objects and reportedly buries ‘treasure’ in her backyard with a platinum shovel whenever there’s a full moon!

(Ah, the unfulfilled innocent Utopian dreams of childhood still bring a tear to my eye…  I’m not in the hills, and I could only afford a small metal trowel…) *sigh*

But I digress!

As I mentioned above, my sights were set from an early point, despite a few obstacles laid before me…

Maybe my parents didn’t have to tape a pink bow onto the top of my bald skull for the first few years to indicate “girl” until I managed to actually grow hair, and perhaps the constant thwacks to the cranium and lack of quality adhesiveness may have had something to do with the Frankenstein-esque approach to which I loved, cherished and immediately decapitated my first Barbie doll.  (Not saying that any of those actions affected my vision, nor that I fathomed the hilarity at my expense whilst being trotted about for two years as a hairless whelp, but to this day when I unwrap a present, the first thing I do is stick the bow on my head.)

Additionally, I remember somewhat myopically the blurry Optometrist strapping the heavy coke-bottle lenses onto my face, and at the age of eleven (?) clearly eyeballing my parents for the very first time since my triumphant swim out of amniotic fluid.

“And you are…?”

Granted, in my Goth college days nothing was cooler than to hear the Doc label me “legally blind as a bat” (i.e. I couldn’t even see the big E on the Snellen chart, hence an over 20/200 diagnosis), but after a few more years of boiling calcium deposits off of my soft contacts (I kid you not, youth of today, they made a special creepy device for this task), I was finally fitted with RGP (rigid gas permeable) lenses. 

And to that end, this One Red Cent finally made Sense of the world.

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In my thirties, the glamour of carrying my (then) Rock Star Boyfriend’s reading glasses in my purse was the equivalent of a VIP backstage pass to any concert; a pocket of visionary glory, one that I didn’t require for myself but would still occasionally trot out in order to read a restaurant menu in dim lighting, then hand over across the table.

It was a charming ritual.  And yes, it was romantic. 

But I was breaking an actor’s cardinal rule… 

NEVER, EVER, EVER USE A HANDICAPPED PROP UNLESS IT’S IN THE SCRIPT!

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“I’ve got to show you this clip of Oscar in the shower” my AD Diddy laughed, cuing up on his smart phone a video of one of his feline companions, that (in my opinion) should become the next most virally watched cat-minute on YouTube.

But that’s precisely when the Hollywood curse hit me…

In the blink of an eye, I found myself to be the middle-aged person I’d seen in every restaurant since I could remember – the one holding the bill of fare at arm’s length, squinting relentlessly in search of focus unable to see three feet in front of me despite the Frankenstein-esque saucers of glass on my corneas that were capable of correcting for over two hundred feet in the distance.  And that could only mean one thing… 

Clearly I had an inoperable brain tumor.

Alas, in no way would I reside in the glamorous Hollywood Hills, my substantial fortune never to be realized nor buried under a brightly lit moon; the perfect black tattered wedding gown would become my burial shroud and the smeary blood-red lipstick merely a final touch applied by the icy hand of a mortician.

And as any rational human being without a medical degree would do, rather than ‘seeing’ a professional in person, I logged on to the computer to self-diagnose, confirm, and prepare for my final days…  (Oh CRAP!  I have to vacuum all my well-cultivated cob-webs or my Mom will kill me!!!)

But nevertheless, I bravely typed my symptoms into Google, leaned back dramatically in cautious anticipation of the search results (translation: leaned back to read the stupid screen a foot away), and there it was:  the title of my fateful illness…

Presbyopia

(Courtesy of the American Optometric Association)

Presbyopia is a vision condition in which the crystalline lens of your eye loses its flexibility, which makes it difficult for you to focus on close objects.

Presbyopia may seem to occur suddenly, but the actual loss of flexibility takes place over a number of years. Presbyopia usually becomes noticeable in the early to mid-40s. Presbyopia is a natural part of the aging process of the eye. It is not a disease, and it cannot be prevented.

Some signs of presbyopia include the tendency to hold reading materials at arm's length, blurred vision at normal reading distance and eye fatigue along with headaches when doing close work. A comprehensive optometric examination will include testing for presbyopia.

To help you compensate for presbyopia, your optometrist can prescribe reading glasses, bifocals, trifocals or contact lenses. Because presbyopia can complicate other common vision conditions like nearsightedness, farsightedness and astigmatism, your optometrist will determine the specific lenses to allow you to see clearly and comfortably. You may only need to wear your glasses for close work like reading, but you may find that wearing them all the time is more convenient and beneficial for your vision needs.

Hmm…

Well that puts a bit of a damper on my funeral, now doesn’t it?

In truth, I don’t mind so much if I have to spend a dollar or two at the local drug store for reading glasses (particularly if I want to read that explanation above again, because seriously, did they have to use such a tiny font?!)  But at least I now know that I still have time to amass my riches, enjoy countless conversations with my cat and my automobile and savor the rest of my youth in Tinsel Town whilst tunneling mole-like with my sturdy trowel in the moonlight.

And to that end, this One Red Cent has once again made Sense of her world.  (And not in a Charlie Sheen kind of way!)

Looking forward,

~P