That first day I sat in the big, fake leather chair at the eye doctor’s office, my little spirit shook.
At age 6, I couldn’t see the board at school. Typical. In my heart, though, I knew.
My eyes. Oh, my eyes.
Twice, sometimes three and even four times a year, I sat in that same chair as the world around me blurred in more dramatic ways.
“She could lose her sight,” I heard the doctor once say.
Somewhere around age 10, though, the doctor visits slowed. No one explained why. In my heart, though, I knew.
I wouldn’t lose my sight, but spend my life deeply obligated to my glasses and the health of my eyes.
In the years that followed, dozens of pairs of glasses came and went. I treated each eye doctor visit as self-care and fell in love with the routine of making sure my peepers got top-shelf treatment.
Graduating into progressives three years ago, I knew the annual glasses replacement would have to slow (they are damn expensive). My last pair took a beating, literally on life support for the last few months.
So, when it came time to level up my prescription, I found that thrill of picking out the new pair and taking care of mes yeux rushing back.
Here are the results.
