Looking Over My Glasses

I just got new glasses, and when I first put them on, I gasped. The world was clear. The astigmatism and myopia were no more.

But then I tried to read. It was awful. The letters were all bunched together, arching too high and nauseating me. I fretted that the prescription was wrong, that I had waited too long to fill it, that I should have taken the bifocal leap. Only the last one was true. As I was bemoaning my bad luck and bad decisions in eyewear purchase, Owen said, “They’re far-away glasses. Take them off to read.” This had never occurred to me. We always thought it hilarious when my mother had to take off her glasses to see things. I’ve worn glasses since the age of seven because of severe near-sightedness. Glasses were all-the-time things. The first night I had them, I even slept in them. (In the morning, my mom told me people took them off to sleep.)

But then I took my glasses off to read. I’m now whipping them on and off in classes, depending whether I need to read text or facial expressions. I’ve now become one of those middle-aged people with an intimidating “over-the-glasses gaze.” This always struck me as so affected back when my vision was bad in a simple sense. It makes me feel so strict. Foucault didn’t live long enough to figure out how much more powerful The Gaze was when given over spectacles with eyebrows raised, less to be quizzical than to raise the eyes over the useless lenses. I can sense the power running through capillaries every time I slide the glasses down my nose.

Here I am, glasses on my desk, typing away. I manage, but even at this distance the computer screen is not clear. There’s a reason I wear glasses. But for what’s close, it’s better without correction.