OR RATHER WEEKS
Admittedly, I have problems with adjusting to glasses. I didn't want glasses in the first place. Then came the bifocals-mortifying. It wasn't long before my eye doctor suggested that I needed to move to trifocals. I never did get used to them and have never even tried to master contact lenses. Now, mid-point in my 59th year, I have noticed the ever-increasing march toward poorer and poorer vision. Reluctantly, I went to my local eye doctor for a new pair of glasses. After the usual optical dance, I got a new prescription that would correct the vision of my aging eyes.
I took the script to the in-house eyeglass maker. They said I would get my glasses in a couple of hours. Since I couldn't wait, I came back the next day, but my glasses weren't done. They assured me that my new glasses would be ready for sure the following day. I came back the next day, and they informed me that they had broken one of the lenses. However, not to worry; they would have them for me tomorrow. Unfortunately, I discovered the next day that they were backordered. They guaranteed me that I would have my long awaited lenses the very next day-I've heard that before. To which I said, "Thanks but no thanks, I'll take my business elsewhere."
I would show them, and I took my business to one of those national one-hour companies. Behold, I did get them back in an hour. I had put my consumer foot down and had spent my money elsewhere-an example of a market-driven economy. The only problem was that when I put on my new glasses, I couldn't see worth beans. I had them check the prescription again only to find that it was what the doctor ordered.
Back, I trouped to my doctor in a controlled rage. Thinking that he screwed up or that I was rapidly becoming blind, I asked him what was up? After reexamining my eyes, he assured me that my eyesight hadn't changed in the week since I had seen him. The problem was that he over-corrected my impaired vision. He reduced the correction and off I went with my new script and glasses through which I couldn't see. I went back to the national chain to have them redo my glasses.
However, before they remade the lenses, I requested that they tint the lenses slightly more than what I originally had. I came back in exactly one-hour and the glasses were ready. Ready, yes. But the tint was so dark that I would be confused as either a Muslim terrorist or a mafia don. Either way, I didn't want to be racially profiled and hassled because of my glasses. The assistant could read in my wide-eyed expression that the tint had been slightly overdone. She assured me that in a few minutes they could tone down the tint. I hoped so. I didn't have sunglasses as dark as these glasses. After waiting an additional half-hour, I noticed behind a glass partition, my assistant and the lens doctor huddled together conversing over my glasses. It reminded me of the scene in a neonatal ward as doctors and nurses looked at a preemie that had some major life-threatening complication. Finally, the assistant came out and explained that they had chipped one of the lenses, and they would have a new one ready in less than an hour.
By this time, I didn't care whether I got my new glasses. I wanted to put this entire experience behind me. I have never liked getting old, and this glasses debacle was the last straw.
A postscript to my plight that lasted over a week, I did finally get my glasses. I don't look like a terrorist and am able to see slightly better than I did prior to this whole episode. As you read this article, I'm slowly calming down from my ocular fiasco realizing that it was just one of those days...or rather weeks.