Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
My name is Miriam and I’m a myopic. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious. For those of you not up with optical lingo, it means that I’m short-sighted. And for those of you that get confused between short and long-sighted because they are lucky enough to have perfect vision, it means that I can only see things that are close to my body. And by the way I hate you. Having bad vision is a curse.
Until recently I was in denial about my challenged eyesight. I used to flip my glasses on and off throughout the day, only using them when it was absolutely necessary. You know, things like being able to see people crossing the road when I was driving, or for trying to read the specials board in restaurants without that horrible squint-face look typical of the glass-less myopic. That kind of thing can be a bit awkward without corrected vision. But apart from that I was fine, right? What I didn’t realize is that for the most part, I was living in a world of complete delusion. For example, sweeping and vacuuming the floor of my home was a breeze. And why on earth were people complaining about having to mop floors all the time with kids I wondered? My floor was 6 months since a mop and going strong. Make-up? What was that about? I didn’t need make-up. All this money people forked out on foundation and concealer just seemed so unnecessary. Blemishes? Wrinkles? A quick look in the mirror and off I headed for a night out with a bit of lippie on. I never watch television, so basically I never had to wear glasses at home at all.
Of course as my children’s faces became harder to recognise from shorter and shorter distances, I did start to ask myself some questions. And so did they. “Mum, why don’t you smile back at me?”
Why was I so resistant to wearing those amazing lensed inventions unless absolutely necessary? A bit of ego, a touch of control-freak and let’s throw in some hypochondria while we’re at it. I know that the optical world has tried to make glasses sexy in the last decade, bless them. And sure they look pretty damn great on the gorgeous, tanned model in the hot black dress on the FCUK advertisement. But let’s face it, that ain’t how most of us are looking. When I put glasses on, I feel like a scientist, without the intellect. And have you ever heard the idea that the more you wear glasses, the worse your eyesight becomes? Well I sure have. Combine this with my hypochondriac tendencies, and I was set for complete blindness by the age of 50.
But staring at my fuzzy daughter (who was apparently smiling at me), I answered “Because I don’t have my glasses on, sweetie.” That was the moment I reached for my glasses and put them on. And the world changed.
Holy crap it changed. What on earth was that blob on the floor by the pantry? And how many crumbs were under that stool? Was there something growing from under my fridge? As my daughter’s smile disappeared to be replaced by a look of confused horror, she asked “Mummy, are you okay?” I ran from room to room gasping in terror at the marks and flaws that stained my home. Sure, maybe some of them looked vaguely familiar, but now it was as if a chorus of blotches had been set in high contrast across my vision all at once. It was overwhelming imperfection.
As the shock subsided, I picked up the phone and rang my helpline (aka, my sister). “Are you okay?” she asked in her usual loving way. “I just put my glasses on” I mumbled as if delivering terrible news. “And everything’s a mess.”
“Welcome to the real world, darling.” she chuckled.
And so it is that I accepted my diagnosis and a life of prescriptive lenses. As the shock gradually subsided, so did the blotches and faults. How much had I missed living in my fog of delusion? I had stuck my head in the sand and softened all the blemishes, but so too had I missed the clarity of my children’s expressions – joy, sadness, curiousity, concentration. My world opened immeasurably in response to what I saw.
Vision is an immense luxury. It’s one that I tossed aside, choosing instead to live in a murky haze because I wasn’t quite prepared to accept the reality of life around me. Things are never perfect. With perfect vision comes the responsibility of accepting all of life’s imperfections. It means we are prone to seeing things we sometimes don’t want to see, however our reactions and judgements to those things will always be our individual responsibility and choice.
What I realized is that the splotches and blotches become normal after awhile. I do put a bit more effort into the mopping now, but the excitement of a clean floor isn’t enough to personally convince me that I need to spend too much of my life doing that. But hey, at least I know what’s growing under the fridge now. Being a reformed myopic-in-denial, I now know what I choose. I’m choosing to see the splotches and blotches, the marks and stains, and all the certainty that comes with the crispness of our imperfect lives.
NB: I won’t elaborate on my first lensed encounter with the mirror. Suffice to say that I spent a small fortune at the Lancôme counter a week later, as well as purchasing a ridiculously expensive pair of tweezers.