Youngs, turn away and move on, for below lies an ugly tale of what awaits you after the mid-forties. If you choose to continue reading, you have been warned.
Even as a Young, I had poor vision, but it was corrected to 20/20 with garden-variety glasses. Granted, they were thick as fuck and so heavy they would slide down my nose, but I could see fine. Then came the new hotness, “high index” lenses. These were made by some form of optical alchemy which allowed my 8 or so diopter correction to stop looking like something out of a 1940’s anti-Japanese propaganda film. And, praise Bausch & Lomb, separately and as a committed life couple, they were made out of some kind of space-age plastic that made them incredibly light.
So, optically speaking, the late-90’s and the oughts were salad days for me. Glasses would no longer slip down my nose, and I could see fairly well. I realized that the field of view on these new glasses was somewhat restricted, and the early models would scratch and the coatings would wear off in about a year, but they were an improvement.
Then, as will happen to all you Youngs, even those of you with 20/20 vision, presbyopia struck, and I needed bifocals. No worries, because another form of optiks magic has created “progressive” lenses. In the same way that political progressives are invisible on Fox News, the bifocal part in these lenses cannot be seen. I got my first set of high-index progressives two years ago, and I was able to adjust to the approximately one millimeter “sweet spot” in the center of the lens. So, life went on, albeit with a lot more movement of my neck and head, since that tiny sweet spot means that moving your eyes to see something is out of the question.
Well, yesterday I got a second set with a more powerful bifocal part, and by coincidence, the new keyboard that I ordered to replace the worn-out and crudded-over one on my main office computer arrived. Between the new prescription and the new keyboard, I am, to use a technical term, FUBAR. My poor old-man axons and dendrites are sparking and smoking as they try, in vain, to burn new pathways around the billions of alcohol-destroyed neurons rolling around uselessly in my cabeza. If I could type at more than half of my usual speed with my new keyboard, and if I could see the screen clearly with my new glasses, I might write more about how frustrating that is.
Another frustrating fact: as a Young, you can walk into Lenscrafters or order glasses off the Internet, and it’s no big thing to get your glasses in an hour or overnight. The (meticulous, excellent) optician at the optical place that I frequent has to look up which high-index lenses work with my “see the future” prescription in a 30 page catalog of possible combinations. Then it takes two weeks for a basement full of Chinese toddler slaves to create enough tears to lubricate the lens grinding machine used to fashion my $600 (I shit you not) lenses. Then, Dios mediante, I get my new glasses, after which it will take a few days for my eyes to find the now 1/2 millimeter sweet spot. But I will say that the $60 my insurance pays, the same amount they’ve paid since the dawn of recorded history, does help soften the blow.
This thread is for bitching about being old, so have at it.