Santa wears readers in our house.
This 2019 edition to his wardrobe owes little to his deficiencies and everything to ours.
Two of us have terrible eyesight and a vain inability to keep track of our glasses…because they’re only on our actual heads when we absolutely have to strap them on.
Otherwise, you’ll find dime store readers all over our house. We keep a pair on the piano, near the kitchen table, next to our bed, in my purse, and in the console between the seats of our cars. Even with all these pairs, I still spend a good chunk of my day looking for glasses.
That is because I am even more nearsighted than I am farsighted, and I am not very disciplined. I have, on more occasions than I should cheerfully admit, removed my contact lenses and wandered the house blindly looking for my prescription lenses.
My husband Vince finds them for me all the time.
“Have you seen my…”
“Downstairs on the table next to the white couch in the living room.”
Sometimes, when I get distracted by some (usually phone related) nonsense just after popping my contacts out, he’ll see me squinting and hand me my glasses without comment before I even think to ask.
He’s chivalrous that way but not entirely without fault in this aging game we play. Vince likes to prop his reading glasses about an inch above his ears so they slope down towards his nose in a way that suggests the lenses aren’t actually his, he’s just borrowing them for this one instance and will return them promptly to their rightful owner, who is clearly more afflicted than he.
We’re both 55-years old and sliding quickly toward bifocal land, but, metaphorically, we’re sticking our feet out as we go to slow the process as much as we can.
So, I plunked some readers on Santa this year, both to mark this hilarious time in our lives and so I can promptly find a pair when I need them.
Maybe I should ask the big guy for some dignity this year?