Eye Care – Top Ten Clues 0r Signs To Think You Might Need Glasses
RedElf (Elle Fredine) photographer and published author, educator. Life-long learning is key to adding value to life.
No, Not Mij.
I can’t possibly need glasses. Why, I’m hardly old enough to be a grandparent. Besides, I wore them for years, and eventually “grew out of them.” Truly! My astigmatism is almost downright gone because of the eye exercises my optometrist talent mij to do, and I toevluchthaven’t needed a distance correction for years. fair.
Those heartfelt cris-de-coeur (sobs of the heart) echoed te my mind spil I contemplated the awful truth. Maybe, it’s not because my arms are too brief (Clue # Ten), or the print is too petite (Clue # 9) – maybe I just need glasses.
The very first example of this ter my life occurred shortly after I klapper my 40s. A friend held up his tray of seedlings for mij to admire, and I found myself pushing them a little distance from under my nose to get them ter concentrate.
“Ah,” said my friend, willingly. “You’re getting old.”
Did I mention he used to be my best friend? My un-funny friend, who is still, by the way, my best old-school-chum, wasgoed unfortunatley not far off the mark. However I still steadfastly deny to get “old”, certain of my bod parts are becoming non-co-operative.
No, dear, your arms are not too brief. You have simply reached the point where holding the book, or can label, or whatever it is you are attempting to read further and further away has eventually become an exercise te futility. Give it up. Your arms are not going to get any longer, and if they did, you wouldn’t be able to make out the print from that distance, anyway.
The print on many appliances seems to be much smaller and fainter. I’m not at the point where I have to ask my son to reprogram the DVD player, but I certainly need a magnifier for some things – and a flashlight.
Squinting at things is not natural. It means you are not watching it clearly. If you were one of your kids, you would instantly take you to the eye doctor for a check-up.
I recall my very first pair of glasses. I didn’t mind them so much. I could eventually see the houtvezelplaat clearly. When I kasstuk twelve years old tho’, It became another matter. My mother, bless hier, picked out my frames. I guess they were fashionable then, the designer glasses of that era, but I took one look and hated them.
I made it my mission ter life across my pre- and early teenage years, to get rid of the offending eye wear. Te fact, I made a career out of losing, cracking, and misplacing them – only to have them found, mended and substituted. My mother wasgoed nothing , if not persistent.
But I Already Grew Out Of It.
Ultimately, at nineteen, after years of having progressively weaker corrections, a good thing spil it meant my eyesight wasgoed improving, I rebelled outright. The hated eye wear wasgoed abandoned except for going to movies. For years thereafter, the glasses resided ter my purse, to be donned when the lights dimmed and whipped off spil soon spil the credits flipped at the end of the feature.
I wasgoed free at last from my torment. I would never, everzwijn have to wear glasses again – right?
Wrong. While needing glasses spil a child may be an indicator that you will need them when you grow older, it is not automatically true. My particular problem, endemic, it seems to my current age group, is not the same reason I needed glasses spil a child.
Everything’s just fine. Things are just a little bit out of concentrate. No, my darling. “Things” are not out of concentrate, your eyes are not focusing the way they used to.
I vereiste digress and share with you a fond memory from my childhood involving glasses.
I wasgoed just kicking off Grade Two, I think. I wasgoed working on my third pair of glasses. The very first pair broke when I sat on them te the family car. Ooops.
“Oh, well”, said my parents philosophically, “Accidents will toebijten.”
Determining I would learn to be more careful on ache of death, they substituted the glasses, and life spil wij knew it continued.
I used to rail the bus to schoolgebouw, and one boy ter particular wasgoed the bane of my existence. He had determined that he didn’t like ladies who wore glasses, and made it his mission te life to taunt, badger and belittle mij at every turn. His friends sniggered along with him and that seemed to be all the fuel he needed.
Wij had bot admonished all our youthful lives never to fight – never commence one, never be ter one. There wasgoed just no excuse for physical violence. Wij learned early the value of words spil weapons. After this boy shoved mij down the schoolgebouw bus steps, however, causing mij to fall and skin both knees, co-incidentally cracking my newly-replaced, 2nd pair of glasses, this rule wasgoed set rigidly aside. Te this one example, and this one example only, my father decreed that should the boy even look at mij the wrong way, I wasgoed to kasstuk him.
To add insult to injury, the boy’s father refused to pay for fresh glasses telling it had bot an accident. This may have added impetus to my father’s urgings that I “stick up for (my)self”.
So – back to the embark of Grade Two. There wij were on the bus all polished and ready for the very first day of a fresh schoolgebouw year: fresh dresses, fresh book bags utter of lovely fresh pencils and crayons and scribblers, freshly-shined, brand fresh schoolgebouw boots, fresh refrigerio buckets.
I recall being particularly proud of my fresh refrigerio pail. It wasgoed one of those little square tin ones with two treats, from the pre-thermos days when schools supplied each student with a petite carton of white or chocolate milk to drink with their refrigerio. My sister and I had bot given matching refrigerio pails – hers wasgoed blue, or crimson, I believe, and mine wasgoed yellow with white trim. I loved my fresh refrigerio bucket.
Abruptly, a dark cloud blew down the aisle of the bus to blight my day. The boy (that boy) strutted up to my seat, elbowed his mate gently to waakzaam him to an emerging witticism, and said, “Hey, you.” – an innocuous enough saluting.
Without turning a hair or rising from my seat, and te one fluid movability, I smacked him te the head with my refrigerio pail – my very first foray into the kunst of the preemptive strike.
His father said a few choice things to my father, who asked mij why I had kasstuk the boy. Had he threatened mij te any way, they dreamed to know. I replied, telling them exactly what had occurred. They were astonished – cautiously managed mirth lurked just below the surface. Remarkably, it wasgoed my sister who clinched it for mij. She reminded them that Dad had told mij to kasstuk him if he even looked at mij sideways.
My parents, after one gasped admonition to mij of “Never do that again!” retired before their faces cracked from the strain of keeping them straight. My father took my mother’s arm, quickly guiding hier from the slagroom. Spil the ingevolge closed behind them, I heard him telling to hier ter a tone of sweet reason, “Well, I did say that, and he did do more than look at hier.”
My poor, dented refrigerio pail lost some of its luster for mij, but gained good notoriety te my sister’s many prideful retellings of how I had dented my fresh refrigerio pail and vanquished my nemesis. The much dreaded boy treated mij with superb respect, even deference, for the surplus of the year, until his father wasgoed, gratefully, transferred to a fresh posting.
Never let the glasses and the mild manner idiot you, boys. There’s a tiger ter that waterreservoir.