Yesterday, the entirety of my life right now was epitomized at about 7:17 a.m., when I knocked rather timidly on Liz’s door, with my pulse racing a mile a minute.
“Gzuh?” went Liz.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said, the initial rise of panic I had felt upon my discovery still lingering inside me. “I can’t find my glasses!”
In all my years of wearing glasses—let’s see, that would be 13—I have only lost them twice. And there is nothing quite so alarming as putting your hand out and not finding them there.
You can’t look for them. You can’t see anything. Your vision is reduced to blobs of ill-defined color and light, and you’ve gone and picked those damn Swissflex glasses that are unobtrusive to wear and invisible to you when you take them off. You feel around the spot you always put them, peering at it from two inches away. You could be looking directly at your glasses and you’d never know, because you can’t see anything.
And it brings home to you, more than anything has in a long time, that if you were stuck on a desert island and your glasses were washed away, you would die.*
So Liz came out, looked around for about two seconds, and pulled out my glasses where I had knocked them into my underwear drawer. I thanked her profusely, and she went back to bed.
Thank the gods I live when I do. Glasses and indoor plumbing are fantastically good.
*Or, if you had your glasses, the other castaways would smash you with a rock and steal them and have a clan war.
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