For the last two years, my fiancé Preppy and I have had a little game. Okay, he might call it something different, but to me it was a little game. Whenever we went to a restaurant, I would ask him to read the words on signs or television screens across the room. He’d crane his neck and squint his eyes, straining to make out the words. It was like Morgan Freeman looking for that tombstone in “Driving Miss Daisy.”
“Try… a… marshmallow?”
“It says margarita, baby. Try a margarita. Why would the bar be selling marshmallows?”
“It could happen. Could be the name of a shot. I’d try it.”
“Don’t try to distract me. What’s the word below margarita?”
His frustration is mounting, but I have a point to make here.
“…mojito.”
“That was a lucky guess based on context clues. Being defiant will not make you any less blind.”
He knows this. All of his friends know this, as do his co-workers. Yet, he resists. I know my random eye tests in public places are straining his patience more than his eyes, but I’ve only got a few days left at home before I leave for four months. So I have to nag him as much as possible. Because while his determination and denial have reached Hillary Clinton levels, this man I love who cannot read the names of drinks on a chalkboard is driving a car. I find this alarming, and I know I will spend the next four months waiting for a late-night phone call announcing some horrible accident. I can picture the scene quite clearly. It involves police tape and Preppy on a stretcher, weakly calling my name. I can be really detailed in my nightmares. My mind always goes to the worst-case scenario first, because it makes the trip back to reality so reassuring.
Preppy says the situation is not nearly as dire as I claim, that he’s learned to cope with it. My argument is always that we’re not talking about a mysterious condition here. He doesn’t have whatever that sleepy disease was that Cher had; he just needs to get glasses.
I admit I’m being judgmental and shrewish over this whole thing. It might as well be Lynette’s B-plot on an episode of Desperate Housewives. I don’t doubt that Preppy has learned to live life like Mr. Magoo, and to him it likely all seems quite manageable. The truth is, we’ve all got something like this in their lives- an element of our existence that has been declining in quality or payoff, but we hold onto it, adjust, try to make do.
My pal Mel lost a whole bunch of weight. No, seriously, you could have built two Jonas brothers out of the weight she lost. The newly skinny Mel met a new guy who simply was not a good match. They struggled, and tried, and wrote down goals to improve their relationship. Still, they resisted the breakup long after the relationship’s natural expiration date. Part of that was because he was the first guy she’d seriously dated since she became the new her. But staying with him was preventing her from becoming the NEW new her, which was even better. Eventually she had the little light bulb moment, and did the necessary repairs on her life.
We don’t lower our standards because we’re incapable of fixing the problem, and it isn’t because we can’t see what’s deteriorating. It’s because doing the repairs requires acknowledging that something’s not working anymore. Whether it’s the wrong job, a bad relationship, an unflattering hair color, or failing eyesight, it’s just easier to lower standards than it is to cowboy up and admit things have gotta get better.
Without any warning, Preppy came home from work last night sporting brand-new spectacles. They make him look smart, and even preppier, so I’m a fan. I’m proud of him for taking care of the problem, and I choose to believe my nagging had something to do with it.
“So, is it amazing?” I ask. “All the details you’ve been missing?”
From across the room, he smiles and studies me closely.
“You really need to touch up your roots. And when’s the last time we vacuumed in here?”
Okay. I had it coming.
“Try… a… marshmallow?”
“It says margarita, baby. Try a margarita. Why would the bar be selling marshmallows?”
“It could happen. Could be the name of a shot. I’d try it.”
“Don’t try to distract me. What’s the word below margarita?”
His frustration is mounting, but I have a point to make here.
“…mojito.”
“That was a lucky guess based on context clues. Being defiant will not make you any less blind.”
He knows this. All of his friends know this, as do his co-workers. Yet, he resists. I know my random eye tests in public places are straining his patience more than his eyes, but I’ve only got a few days left at home before I leave for four months. So I have to nag him as much as possible. Because while his determination and denial have reached Hillary Clinton levels, this man I love who cannot read the names of drinks on a chalkboard is driving a car. I find this alarming, and I know I will spend the next four months waiting for a late-night phone call announcing some horrible accident. I can picture the scene quite clearly. It involves police tape and Preppy on a stretcher, weakly calling my name. I can be really detailed in my nightmares. My mind always goes to the worst-case scenario first, because it makes the trip back to reality so reassuring.
Preppy says the situation is not nearly as dire as I claim, that he’s learned to cope with it. My argument is always that we’re not talking about a mysterious condition here. He doesn’t have whatever that sleepy disease was that Cher had; he just needs to get glasses.
I admit I’m being judgmental and shrewish over this whole thing. It might as well be Lynette’s B-plot on an episode of Desperate Housewives. I don’t doubt that Preppy has learned to live life like Mr. Magoo, and to him it likely all seems quite manageable. The truth is, we’ve all got something like this in their lives- an element of our existence that has been declining in quality or payoff, but we hold onto it, adjust, try to make do.
My pal Mel lost a whole bunch of weight. No, seriously, you could have built two Jonas brothers out of the weight she lost. The newly skinny Mel met a new guy who simply was not a good match. They struggled, and tried, and wrote down goals to improve their relationship. Still, they resisted the breakup long after the relationship’s natural expiration date. Part of that was because he was the first guy she’d seriously dated since she became the new her. But staying with him was preventing her from becoming the NEW new her, which was even better. Eventually she had the little light bulb moment, and did the necessary repairs on her life.
We don’t lower our standards because we’re incapable of fixing the problem, and it isn’t because we can’t see what’s deteriorating. It’s because doing the repairs requires acknowledging that something’s not working anymore. Whether it’s the wrong job, a bad relationship, an unflattering hair color, or failing eyesight, it’s just easier to lower standards than it is to cowboy up and admit things have gotta get better.
Without any warning, Preppy came home from work last night sporting brand-new spectacles. They make him look smart, and even preppier, so I’m a fan. I’m proud of him for taking care of the problem, and I choose to believe my nagging had something to do with it.
“So, is it amazing?” I ask. “All the details you’ve been missing?”
From across the room, he smiles and studies me closely.
“You really need to touch up your roots. And when’s the last time we vacuumed in here?”
Okay. I had it coming.
