“We’re here to pick up my daughter’s new glasses.”
I was horse-back riding and my parents thought it was best that I had a spare pair of glasses. Two of my older sisters wore contact lenses. I was lobbying for lenses too, but I was told I was too young to wear contacts, so a second pair of glasses was a necessity.
I sat down at the compact and optimized optician’s desk and marveled for the maybe fiftieth time about how everything had a home in such a small space.
“B-r-z….B-r-z-u….here we are!” the optician jollied, and he pulled out my new metal framed glasses from his drawer full cushion-y glass cases, lined up like file folders. He looked at them a second with pride and then turned, motioned for me to take off my old glasses, and gently set the new glasses on my face.
“There you are! How are they?”
“Wellllll, they feel alright, but I can’t see out of them.”
“What do you mean you can’t see? Just look!”
I moved my head around the room and it was like seeing through a wave at the beach.
“Nope. I can’t see. Everything is all….ooooh! They’re making me dizzy!”
He practically snatched them off my nose, and then started adjusting them. After a few turns of a small screwdriver and some polishing he slid them back on my face.
The same wavy motions as I turned my head.
“No! Please!” I took them off and handed them to him.
Chagrined doesn’t even start to describe the poor man’s state. He prodded and poked at the glasses and at me. My mother sat watching this show. Finally, she reached for the glasses case with the carbon copy order tucked neatly inside.
“No wonder the child can’t see! This is her older brother’s prescription!”