After two years of reading the fine print on pretty much anything either an inch from my face or doing the trombone move and extending my arm from as far from my face as possible, I pulled the trigger on new glasses with progressive lenses.
They don’t call them bifocals anymore.
Praise Jesus.
And praise technology. Bifocals are now aptly named “progressive lenses”. They can call them anything they want. The reality is I need reading glasses. Sad.
Initially I asked my spousal unit to help me select new frames. He was well-meaning but his mode of feedback was as follows:
• Frame #1: “Those look nice.”
• Frame #2: “Those look nice.”
• Frame #3: “Those look nice”
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I checked out two pairs of the “those look nice” frames and brought them home to show my son to which he said:
“Is there a 3rd choice” and “I don’t want to hurt your feelings but those look like Grandmas glasses.”
Yeah. Back they went.
Then I got smart and brought my BFF to the eyeglass selection party who could offer real feedback. We picked out three pairs that thankfully did not resemble “Grandmas glasses” and yielded the appropriate amount of “Those look nice” comments from my family.
I pulled the trigger and ordered them and now wait patiently for them to be completed.
Whoever said “age is just a number” is a liar.
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