Our insurance covers a new pair of glasses each year. I’ve used the benefit because I like to have an heir and a spare on hand at all times. Byron could not be persuaded that he needed to upgrade even though his old glasses never fit in the first place and lack of care has ruined the frames.
Then he watched a video of his presentation from the conference last week and realized exactly how disheveled he looks.
Yesterday as we were driving to a bookstore he said maybe I should consider getting new glasses and I blinked and immediately started issuing directives to drive toward Fremont.
We were almost turned away from the mission when we saw an old drunken man fall down a wooded slope, but after parking and hiking down to extract him from the blackberry bushes, dusting him off, and guiding him to a sidewalk, we went back to what I knew was an urgent task.
When Byron mentions even a glimmer of interest in consumer goods it is necessary to act quickly; coaxing him into a store is more difficult than caging a woodland creature.
Byron of course experienced the adventure as acutely painful. I helped him select spectacles that actually fit his face, inquired for the correct color, and examined the stock of vintage frames for additional options. While he paced and fretted, stopping occasionally to stare at himself in the mirror, I also picked out a new set for myself.
It took exactly forty-five minutes to choose, pay the deposit, and figure out how to get the old prescriptions from Portland.
This brings up a whole new problem for me. I may need to change my hair color.