Ahem. Drum roll please.
I’m now a
proud resigned wearer of progressive lenses. And son of a gun if I can’t actually see! I haven’t done that stupid game of pushing glasses down my nose or up on my head since Wednesday night when I picked these up.
And while I haven’t tried to teach a Jazzercise class yet while wearing them, figuring I should get used to them a little bit before trying any fancy footwork, I’ve done alright.
I can read, see the tunes on my iPod, text, follow a recipe and see the numbers on the clicker without having to rearrange my eyewear.
Apparently my old brain doesn’t need the 10-day breaking-in time I was promised. (Hey, if that’s the only way I can distinguish myself, I’ll take it.)
And Basil and Catherine swear you can’t tell they are juniors’ frames (all the grownup ones were much too big for my face). It’s all good.
Catherine taught me how to take a “selfie” so I could show you.
That’s a self-portrait in current teen lingo, not a naughty thing. (Tip: look at the little circle on the top of your phone, not at your reflection in the camera phone, which is what I was doing and why I looked like such a creeper, according to Catherine.)
I hated every one I took. You’ll have to settle for this cropped version.
I promise, it’s better this way!