The eyes have it
Published on Thu, May 27, 2010 by Chuck SigarsRead More Chuck's World
The other day my optometrist told me I have young eyes. Just came right out and said, “You have young eyes.” I couldn’t wait to tell my wife.
“The optometrist said I have young eyes,” I told her, eager to share.
“Of course you do.”
“No, seriously, that’s what she said.”
“I believe it,” said my wife.
“It was a medical opinion and everything,” I continued, starting to lose my enthusiasm.
“I concur,” said my wife, who I began to suspect was humoring me. Not that I blame her.
And not that I have good eyes, not by any stretch of the imagination. I have very flawed eyes, suboptimal eyes, eyes that don’t work the way eyes are supposed to. They’ve been this way for years, too, although in the last decade or so my near vision has gone into the toilet, like pretty much everyone else over the age of 40. My eyes will win no awards, if such awards exist.
No, what this nice vision professional meant was that my eyes were relatively healthy, with no optic nerve damage or retinal worries, or macular degeneration. They’re also hazel, which some people like.
And probably she was just being nice. Probably she says the same thing to all the 51-year-old men who come in for routine eye exams, but it was still good to hear. That means one less physical thing to worry about, leaving 138 others. Not counting teeth.
I spent some time, a few years ago, with a young guy who was funny and nice and started every earnest conversation with, “I’m not gonna lie to you.” This is a verbal tic, sure, not a Freudian clue, but it was always an interesting way to start a conversation. A preemptive strike, sort of.
So I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m getting older and it’s on my mind.
And to paraphrase what supposedly was the wit of George Bernard Shaw or maybe Churchill (or maybe it’s made up), all that’s left is to negotiate the price.
How much is this aging business going to cost me in terms of cliché and irrelevancy? Not to mention pain and discomfort?
I fight it all the time. Don’t talk so much. Don’t reminisce. Don’t get cranky or sullen or wistful or sentimental. Wear headphones instead of turning the TV up to 11. Don’t drive too slowly. Really, it’s sort of a pathology.
I exercise regularly even though I don’t want to. My most intimate relationship is with the bathroom scale. I force myself to eat leafy green vegetables, I worry about refined sugar, I try to manage stress, and I battle constantly to delude myself into believing that years of neglect and abuse can be overcome by a multivitamin and lots of deep breathing.
Mostly, though, I try to observe people who seem to be aging well and do what they do. A lot of them are 20 years or more older, giving me a little time. Some of them are famous. Pretty much everyone has more money than I do, which probably helps.
But doctors know (including, I’m sure, optometrists). When I was in my 20s and had some trouble with back spasms, a visit to my doctor’s office resulted in a Defcon 5 situation. Within a few minutes I was being injected with muscle relaxants, given ultrasound treatment, referred to a physical therapist, prescribed serious narcotics and given the home phone number of my doctor with instructions to call if I felt a twinge.
Fifteen years later I went in for the same problem, same symptoms, same pain. “I hurt my back,” I whined, and my doctor nodded.
“I’m not surprised,” she said, took my blood pressure a couple of times and told me to try stretching exercises if I wanted to, although they probably wouldn’t help all that much. I was being triaged, in other words. Even though I had excellent health insurance, no past medical history to speak of, reasonable genes and a winning personality, I’d been gently written off.
“Don’t smoke,” my doctor also said, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it.
There’s nothing left but the creaking, then, and I’m on my own. So I guess I’ll just keep taking walks, eating broccoli, and breathing as deeply and often as possible. I promise not to yell at kids who get on my lawn, buckle my pants at chest level, gripe about loud music or do anything to my hair other than cut it and comb it.
And if anyone asks my age, I’ll just tell them to look at my eyes and take a guess. Definitely hazel, anyway.
“The optometrist said I have young eyes,” I told her, eager to share.
“Of course you do.”
“No, seriously, that’s what she said.”
“I believe it,” said my wife.
“It was a medical opinion and everything,” I continued, starting to lose my enthusiasm.
“I concur,” said my wife, who I began to suspect was humoring me. Not that I blame her.
And not that I have good eyes, not by any stretch of the imagination. I have very flawed eyes, suboptimal eyes, eyes that don’t work the way eyes are supposed to. They’ve been this way for years, too, although in the last decade or so my near vision has gone into the toilet, like pretty much everyone else over the age of 40. My eyes will win no awards, if such awards exist.
No, what this nice vision professional meant was that my eyes were relatively healthy, with no optic nerve damage or retinal worries, or macular degeneration. They’re also hazel, which some people like.
And probably she was just being nice. Probably she says the same thing to all the 51-year-old men who come in for routine eye exams, but it was still good to hear. That means one less physical thing to worry about, leaving 138 others. Not counting teeth.
I spent some time, a few years ago, with a young guy who was funny and nice and started every earnest conversation with, “I’m not gonna lie to you.” This is a verbal tic, sure, not a Freudian clue, but it was always an interesting way to start a conversation. A preemptive strike, sort of.
So I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m getting older and it’s on my mind.
And to paraphrase what supposedly was the wit of George Bernard Shaw or maybe Churchill (or maybe it’s made up), all that’s left is to negotiate the price.
How much is this aging business going to cost me in terms of cliché and irrelevancy? Not to mention pain and discomfort?
I fight it all the time. Don’t talk so much. Don’t reminisce. Don’t get cranky or sullen or wistful or sentimental. Wear headphones instead of turning the TV up to 11. Don’t drive too slowly. Really, it’s sort of a pathology.
I exercise regularly even though I don’t want to. My most intimate relationship is with the bathroom scale. I force myself to eat leafy green vegetables, I worry about refined sugar, I try to manage stress, and I battle constantly to delude myself into believing that years of neglect and abuse can be overcome by a multivitamin and lots of deep breathing.
Mostly, though, I try to observe people who seem to be aging well and do what they do. A lot of them are 20 years or more older, giving me a little time. Some of them are famous. Pretty much everyone has more money than I do, which probably helps.
But doctors know (including, I’m sure, optometrists). When I was in my 20s and had some trouble with back spasms, a visit to my doctor’s office resulted in a Defcon 5 situation. Within a few minutes I was being injected with muscle relaxants, given ultrasound treatment, referred to a physical therapist, prescribed serious narcotics and given the home phone number of my doctor with instructions to call if I felt a twinge.
Fifteen years later I went in for the same problem, same symptoms, same pain. “I hurt my back,” I whined, and my doctor nodded.
“I’m not surprised,” she said, took my blood pressure a couple of times and told me to try stretching exercises if I wanted to, although they probably wouldn’t help all that much. I was being triaged, in other words. Even though I had excellent health insurance, no past medical history to speak of, reasonable genes and a winning personality, I’d been gently written off.
“Don’t smoke,” my doctor also said, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it.
There’s nothing left but the creaking, then, and I’m on my own. So I guess I’ll just keep taking walks, eating broccoli, and breathing as deeply and often as possible. I promise not to yell at kids who get on my lawn, buckle my pants at chest level, gripe about loud music or do anything to my hair other than cut it and comb it.
And if anyone asks my age, I’ll just tell them to look at my eyes and take a guess. Definitely hazel, anyway.