A Day that Will Live in Infamy

Sunday was a personal disaster from which there is undoubtedly no coming back. Oh, from the outside looking in it probably seemed fine. There was the whole amusing thing about Graham forgetting to run the last lap in a relay his team wasn’t going to win. After, we went home, we watched playoff football, ate some food, talked to family members on FaceTime and Zoom, got ready for the week, and went to bed.

Except. Except that during the games, I was reading my new book The Great War, and I kept thinking that the type had gotten awfully small and that the room seemed dark and my eyes sure must be tired from staring at screens because the words weren’t clearing up very well when I blinked. Of course, the kids have been commenting for a couple of years about how far away I will hold my phone to look at something they’ve just sent me. And various of my coworkers I’ve known for years have opted into reading glasses. But not me. My eyesight has always been excellent, and I probably just spend too long looking at screens.

After reading for a while, I found that I was taking frequent breaks and thought, “I used to be able to sit and read straight for hours. Now I feel like I take breaks every five minutes to look around.” And that annoying interior voice said, “Maybe it’s because you’re working so hard to actually read what’s on the page.”

In a fit of weakness, I said to Lauren, “You have an extra pair of reading glasses?”

“Yes,” she said. She reached over to the end table, grabbed, a pair, and handed them over.

I put them on, opened my book, and an apparent miracle happened—the type was clear and appropriately sized, the page was light, giving nice contrast to the type, and everything was perfectly legible.

“Good lord,” I said.

“What?” said Lauren.

“I guess I need to use these.”

“Want me to get you a pair?”

“No,” I said. “But yes, go ahead.”

January 21, 2024. I, Gordon Derby Laws, Jr., slipped ever closer to the grave by putting on, using, and then asking for a pair of reading glasses. I am forty-six years old—I was told I would be fifty before I needed to take this step. The universe has lied to me, and I hold it and everyone in it responsible. My vision is blurry right now. What? No, I’m not crying! Shut up! You’re crying!

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