I got my first pair of glasses when I was in the third grade. The teacher noticed that I was having trouble seeing the blackboard, even though I was sitting near the front row. Now it seems more unnatural when I am not wearing them. And I am so near-sighted that I cannot see very much without them.
The irony is that people say I have good eyes. When I played golf I hit a lot of balls out into the rough. I seldom lost any, and I often found a few extras. Good eyes, they say. Terrible swing, but good eyes.
When I visit my parents, I usually end up helping my father sort stamps for his collection. I am especially good at finding the stamp in question in the catalog, so he can accurately determine its value. I am equally good at picking out the distinguishing marks that determine if a stamp is worth a penny or a dollar. I have good eyes, he says. But I do sort stamps better at night.
Mornings are another story. I remember a cold dark autumn morning when I was a freshman at Michigan Tech. I was stumbling off to an 8:00 a.m. class and noticed someone standing in the grass next to the sidewalk. It was a ways off and I was thinking of whether or not I could or should say good morning. As I drew next to the person, I realized it was a tall fire hydrant. Good eyes, but not until sufficient quantities of coffee had been consumed.
I also remember another morning when I was married and living in a house on Silverstrand Beach. I was the first one up and was staggering down to the bathroom. I saw our black cat sitting on the floor by the heater and bent over to pet him. It was a purse. Good eyes, after I wake up.
In Aspen one evening, we were all soaking in a very warm swimming pool after a hard day of skiing. Someone asked about a women's restroom and I told her it was the door on the right. Since it was some distance away, and I was not wearing my glasses, she asked how I could tell. Simple. "Women" is longer than "men". I merely directed her to the door with the longer blur. Good thinking, and that was before I joined Mensa.
One night many years ago I stopped at a hair stylist to get my hair cut. (I had more hair then.) I was directed to a chair in its own little booth. The stylist latched the door and took my glasses. She then proceeded to do the entire job standing in front of me. And she was wearing a low-cut blouse with no bra. I finally had to tell her to either stand behind me or give me back my glasses. My eyes may be good, but they aren't that good. If that happened today, I could accuse her of sexual harassment.