The Eyes Don't Have It

Maybe it’s because I never want to look bad, but I won’t admit if I can’t see something. My contact lenses help most of the time, but occasionally I fake it.

History speaks of a man’s reluctance to ask for directions. I usually don’t ask for directions. Not because I know where I’m going, but I can’t see the street signs. It’s really a waste of time for me to ask Akmal in the 7-11 where I should go. Instead, I wisely use that time wandering around guessing at street signs. No offense to Akmal.

My not-so-perfect vision might create the illusion that I’m an unsafe driver. On the contrary, I’m as safe as anybody. I have to be alert with other cars driving the wrong way in my lane, flashing their headlights and honking.

It’s reminiscent of my first days behind the wheel in driver’s education. Of course, now I don’t have the crying middle-aged football coach in the passenger seat praying the rosary. I miss him. He would play tricks on me, joking about stop signs and railroad crossings. I’m still not sure how he made those train sounds.

At the end of my driving day I remove the contacts and put on glasses. The optometrist suggested that I get some special lenses that won’t scratch. I’m not sure what nightly activities he thinks I engage in that necessitate scratch-proof lenses. I don’t even own a cat.

He also suggested I get a prescription windshield for my car, but he says that idea came from his brother. He’s a retired football coach.