I Have Contact Lenses Now

(now I can read number plates!)

I’ve worn glasses for about five years, because I struggle to see things that are further away – and by ‘further away’ I mean a TV on the opposite side of my small living room – and have been comfortable with them. I care far too little about my appearance to be upset by the need to strap bits of glass and plastic to my face, and there is always the marvellous irony that glasses, while allowing one to see, are never seen by oneself, and so their appearance is irrelevant.

But I have encountered a problem as my eyesight has gradually deteriorated over the last few years: it’s getting increasingly difficult to play football without them, a criteria that has defined everything from my friends to my clothes for the last fifteen years of my life. I don’t want to play with glasses, due to the risk of them breaking and the feeling of weirdness that I’m doing a physical activity with artificial objects thrown in, like trying to swim the channel with water wings, so I’ve just put up with not really knowing who’s on my team at any given time (because coloured bibs are for rich people).

Now, however, I will be free to tell Friend A Who’s Better Than Me At Football from Friend B Who’s Better Than Me At Football, this removing the only valid excuse I have left for sucking; and the ‘leave me alone, I’ve got diabetes’ excuse got old eight and a half years ago.

This also has repercussions for the rest of my life; I’ll try playing Assassins’ Creed Brotherhood without glasses this afternoon, to see if I can finally read the animus controls in the top right corner with the ‘naked’ eye, and I might even be able to tell guitars from basses whenever I go to a friend’s gig, meaning I can finally associate sound to its origin (not being able to do so is strangely unnerving).

I will have to get over the fact that I try to blink my fingers away whenever I put the damn things in my eyes, making my eyelids look like a fleshy venus fly trap trying to eat at the sweet, sweet juices of the contact lens between them, and there is the eternal problem of me dropping them on the floor and then, with an appropriate amount of irony (or even eye-rony), not being able to find them again because they’re colourless and too damn small.

But these are only the generic trial ones; soon I’ll have prescription ones – the great cost of which will be offset by me only wearing them once a week for football instead of every day – and I’ll see ever better. If I’m debating the advantages and disadvantages now, imagine how one-sided that argument will be once I get contact lenses that improve my vision tenfold; think of a see-saw, with Oliver Twist on one side, and Jabba the Hutt on the other.

And did you see what I did there with the ‘eye-rony’ joke? Because now that I have contact lenses, I do too.


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