Call Me A Relic Call Me What You Will

Well ladies and gentlemen, I’ll say this.


There comes a point in all of our lives in which prevailing external forces are pretty belligerent about sharing unwanted news with you.


That’s regardless of whether you even want to hear it or not.


Case in point, let’s talk about my goofy vision.


For those of you who are new to the wonder and amazement that is TharpSter.Org, I need to give you a little background here.  TharpSter, the most insightful, prolific, and verbally brilliant writer on this website and any other website you’ll visit today has some pretty significant vision issues.


I’m far sighted.


I have an astigmatism.


My right eye tends to dominate and make my left eye it’s wobbly little bitch.  Ole Right perceives things at a higher rate of speed than Left-Eye Squinty does.


On occasion, I’ve been known to experience anal glaucoma where I just can’t see my ass doing something.


But that’s a topic for another discussion.


For the last several years, my eye doctor and I have been locked in a Herculean effort to beat the Sisyphean challenge of getting my vision into check.  The problem is that in the great Vin diagram where my vision is in one circle and the ability of corrective surgery is in the other, there is no overlap.


As such, we have to use a box of tricks and gadgets with my eyewear prescription to get me to a point where I can function in society without making people think I’m just looking at them weird.


For what it’s worth I do look at people weird.  Part of it comes from being a solipsist.


Welcome to my world.


Last week, in the waning hours of my 48th year, I made the treacherous trek from headquarters into the Leon Valley area of San Antonio.  There, I carefully drove past the Dairy Queen without stopping for a malt or a blizzard, located a specific office complex nearby, and darkened the door of my eye doctor (who from here on out will be referred to as Dr. K) for my annual visit.


Having shared the appropriate pleasantries dictated by polite society, I delivered a snowflake-infused, Comey-esque sob story about how an individual named “Jack Schitt” had recently entered into my life and I couldn’t see him.  I outlined how I absolutely hate those days where I have to wear my glasses (bifocals) on days I work, because I just can’t negotiate what’s on the computer monitor with those blasted things.


I went off on this whole diatribe about how I’ve given up on physical books with pages, ink, and typeset because the damn font is just too damned small.  Instead, I use an e-reader and increase the size of the font to something that’s a little more acceptable.


All the while, Dr. K sat there and heard me out and made notes whenever I uttered some word that clued him in on what my problem is.


At one point when I had stopped to take a breath and wipe away a tear or two, the doctor took the necessary steps to refocus the conversation.


Authors note:  See what I did there?


“Ok, kwichurbitchin TharpSter.”  I’m pretty sure those were his exact words.  “Let’s take a look and see what your vision is doing before I have to go find you a safe place.”


For the next 10 minutes, I was subjected to one challenge after another involving an eyechart and a heavily accessorized Viewmaster.  “See the third line on the chart on the wall?”




“Ok, read the line using this lens and the next one when I flip it.  Which one looks better?  1 or 2?”




He made another adjustment and then flipped the lenses again.  “3 or 4?”


“Again please?”


“There’s 3, and there’s 4.”


“Is this a joke?  They’re the same….”


“God, I hate you far-sighted ones.  There’s no satisfying you assholes.  Just pick a number before I hit you with another puff of air on your eyeball.”


“Uuummmm, 4.  Yeah, 4 looks good.”


“You’re damn straight it does.”


He never got up to 69 and 70, so the opportunity to expand on which one looks better never presented itself.


A few more challenges and a few 3D puzzle tests later, Dr. K was done with the torture.  “Let’s take a different approach this time.  Let’s change your contacts back to a single focus designed to enhance your vision for distance.  Anytime you’re reading or planted in front of a computer screen, use a pair of reading glasses.  You can go buy those for $5 or $10  a pair.  If all works well, you’ll stop coming in here after Memorial Day every year and crying like a bitch.”


“Sounds like a plan, Dr. K!”  No one likes to be accessed as one who cries like a bitch, especially about his vision.


A week later, the trial pair of lenses arrived.  As such, the grand experiment began just after lunch on a Friday in front of three monitors stationed in a cubicle somewhere in the midst of the mutual fund industry.


With the smell of my Grilled Chicken Melt from Whataburger wafting around the area and distracting my fellow cubicle weeds just enough to lose control of their fidget spinners, I extracted those blasted multi-focal lenses from my eyes and applied the new pair of lenses.  I looked around and at a distance just to make sure there were no problems there.


So far, so good.


I looked at my email.  I obviously had a bunch of email from Jack Schitt.


I broke out the pair of reading glasses I had picked up the previous night and Good Lord in Butter, I could see.


I could read everything, including some of the salty language that Jack Schitt had dared to include in his communications with me.


What a jerk.


Is this what life at a computer really looks like?  This is awesome!


I went out and purchased three additional pairs of reading glasses.  I plan to leave them strategically placed in Wifey’s purse, here at my command center, in the cubicle at work, and one other place where I’ve been known to do some reading.


That’s four pairs of reading glasses people.


“Better 3, better 4?”




You’re damn straight.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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