Vision On

By the time I was 7 years old, I couldn't see much. With no basis for comparison, I didn't stop to question whether or not other people saw the world differently than me.

I did wonder why people were interested in television, that meaningless kaleidoscope of blurred colours. I couldn't see the blackboard at school, but that wasn't a problem. I sat next to my best friend and copied the notes from her. I guess no one noticed that I put my nose within three inches of the page when I read.

My grandmother was the first one to notice that something was amiss. We were outside, and she pointed out a large billboard to me. Not only could I not read the billboard, but I couldn't even see that there was a sign where she was pointing. She marched me home to my mother and said "Take this girl to an eye doctor!"

So it was that at the age of 8, in third grade, I got my first pair of big, thick, geek-kid glasses. I can still remember the first tree I saw with my glasses on. I could make out each individual leaf fluttering in the wind. Just one day ago, that tree would have been a fuzzy ball of undifferentiated green. I stared and stared at this new, sharp-focused world.

Over the years, my shortsightedness grew worse. My parents paid big bucks for high-index lenses because regular glass was too heavy. The bridge of my nose was bruised by the weight of my glasses before my folks finally sprang for the high-tech specs. My prescription now is -6.50 in the right eye, and -9.00 in the left. Translation: I don't think I'm legally blind without my glasses, but I can't see much either. Just blobs of colour, with very little depth perception.

Now I wear contact lenses most of the time.

Having imperfect vision isn't all bad. I'm used to the world being fuzzy and soft in the morning when I wake up and at night when I go to sleep. Being severely myopic gives me an ironclad excuse to never go bungee jumping; apparently I'm at risk for detached retinas, and a bungee jump could pop them right off. And in ninth grade, when my hyperactive girlfriend knocked my glasses off my face and then stepped on them in a fit of gangly teenage clumsiness, a special boy took that opportunity to walk me safely home, holding my hand all the way. I could have found my own way home without much trouble, over familiar ground, but I didn't tell him that. I played the helpless maiden and let him be my knight in shining armour. The cheerleader girls with perfect vision had nothing on me that day.