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On Nearsightedness
Back in the mists of time otherwise known as the late 1980s, I began having trouble with my eyesight. It didn’t seem like a very big deal at first, but became a significant problem by the time I started second grade in 1988. At the beginning of the school year, I was placed in the higher-level reading group, which meant that I had to switch classes for an hour or two each day. My reading teacher insisted that I sit towards the back of the classroom — probably because I was generally well-behaved and, therefore, trustworthy — and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I could barely read anything she wrote on the blackboard. I complained to the teacher over and over again that I couldn’t see the board, but she never believed me. As I grew increasingly frustrated, Mrs. C. discovered that behavioral problems were not beyond the pale of possibility with me.
At seven, I was already an avid reader, and, at the time, was engrossed in a series of novels for children by Lucy Fitch Perkins; the novels concerned the adventures of twins growing up around the world. I found them utterly fascinating — often much more so than whatever we happened to be reading in class at the time, and, under the guise of having to go to the bathroom, I would sneak them out of the classroom with me and lock myself in a stall in the restroom so that I could read a few more pages. Although I no longer remember exactly how the situation resolved itself, I suspect that my absences from class grew longer, more frequent, and more noticeable. It seems to me that Mrs. C. may have called my mother in to discuss my deception, but, at any rate, my nearsightedness was discovered soon enough, and I was swiftly fitted with a new pair of glasses: thick (for my age) lenses, with thick brown plastic frames. My eyesight grew worse nearly every year until reaching a sort of plateau by the time I was in my late ‘teens. Thirty now, I’ve had only three or four small changes in my prescription since the late ’90s. Nevertheless, one habit I acquired as a myopic youth carried over into my bespectacled life: a fondness for reading without glasses by, quite literally, burying my head in a book.
I am so nearsighted that a text can be no further than three or four inches away from my face before it becomes illegible, yet I enjoy reading without my glasses. Serendipitously, this works to my advantage as I’m an easily distracted reader. I can’t read and comprehend while someone else watches television; the noise is too intrusive. (But I can listen to the radio while I read — figure that one out!) I’m also distracted, when I read, by other physical objects that are within my reach: another book, a magazine or newspaper, even my computer or iPad. It all aids in ruining the concentration I need to comprehend what I’m reading.
So, in some ways, I’m grateful for my nearsightedness. There are times when it’s the only thing that makes it possible for me to read with purpose over a sustained period. It’s how I read Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom; frequently, it’s how I read the New York Times. Something about burying my head in a book — something about being so close to the text that I can see its texture and smell the ink — enables me to concentrate within the shallow depth of field I experience when my glasses come off.
Hooray for nearsightedness!
Unstructured Rambling
Wow, it’s been a while since I last entertained my three or four readers with a thrilling dispatch from my life in the uncivilized reaches of the American Middle West. What’s been going on? Not a lot, to be honest.
Much to my own dismay, my organizing, tossing-out, and packing efforts have been, largely, non-existent. I just can’t seem to overcome the inertia I feel when I think about it. I’ve always been a pack rat, and it’s not easy for me to take a pile of stuff and separate it into piles of treasures-to-keep and junk-to-toss. In one week minus two hours, the new house will be ours, but moving day is still several weeks away, and, somehow, I haven’t quite felt the approaching deadline yet.
I’m nearly finished with physical therapy; my last appointment is next Monday. I’ve been feeling perceptibly better every week — sometimes, even, on a day-by-day basis — and I will be very glad for a measure of normalcy to return again to life. Though therapy will soon be ending, I likely won’t feel completely “normal” again until mid-summer, and my last appointment with the orthopædic surgeon is in early July.
I have so much correspondence to catch up on: cards and notes to acknowledge from February, when I was mostly unable to write. Whether by letter, ‘phone call or email, I’m notoriously bad at keeping up with people on an individual basis. My best intentions are usually thwarted by an odd work schedule or other commitment, and a letter I intend to write in March often isn’t finished until May. After I organize my stuff — there’s that word again – and we move into the new house, I hope to keep up with these things in a more responsible way. I have decided that my desktop computer will not inhabit the room I intend to use as my office (where I end up storing it remains to be seen), which will contain a bookshelf, a writing desk, my piano, and, I think, a comfortable chair where I can read. Hopefully, the lack of electronic distractions will allow me to be more focused in regards to my reading and writing. I do intend to purchase a new laptop once we’ve recovered a little from the shock of making the down payment, but that won’t happen for several months yet. I find that I use my desktop computer less and less all the time — mostly only when I need to store or manipulate large files — so that all I really need for day-to-day use is a laptop.
Sometimes I really hate the entries I post here. They’re so unstructured. I wrote such good academic papers in college; structure in writing was one of my strongest talents. I really feel that I’ve lost that. I’m just out of practice, I guess, but sometimes…
Exhausted
I’m substituting tonight for a coworker who usually works the late evening shift. It’s been a long time since I’ve worked these hours, and, as I can usually curl up and go to sleep at 10pm, it’s definitely a challenge to keep myself up and running at this hour. Still, everyone deserves a day off now and again. It’s been a busy evening, and I’m taking a late-evening coffee break at the moment. I desperately need the coffee, actually, as I’m still not sleeping well (a continuation of my post-humerus-fracture troubles).
The recovery is progressing nicely; I’ve more than passed the halfway mark in my physical therapy. My range of motion is almost back to normal, and what remains now is to regain the ability to bear weight on an arm that hasn’t lifted more than a pound or two since the end of January. While I’m supposed to be on “light duty” at work until June (not that I frequently lift heavy objects at work anyway), I am feeling stronger as the weeks pass, and I hope to be able to fill something slightly more than just a supervisory role by the time we’re scheduled to move.
When we placed an offer on the house, I honestly thought that the time leading up to the settlement and moving dates would fly by. Instead, I’ve found that time seems to have dug in its heels, determined to stand still. I haven’t felt quite this much anticipation since I was a small child waiting for the joys of Christmas when the joys of Christmas still held some mystery.
Wednesday: My Tuesday
I’ll be so glad when I’m finished with physical therapy. I mean, the therapists there are great — really enthusiastic and nice — but keeping track of the appointments and working them around work has been a hassle. One day, I have a 9:45 appointment, the next day, it’s at 8:30. Occasionally I have a lunchtime appointment, or one at 11:30. It’s not as bad during the weeks when I work “normal” hours, but it makes for a really long day when I have to work until 7 or 8 in the evening.
Yesterday was especially long, as I had physical therapy in the morning. Though I was scheduled to work later, I went in to work around 10:30 — immediately following my appointment — so I was able to leave around 6:30. After going home to have a quick dinner, Mom and I drove out to the BFEC for an “Owls of Ohio” program. Following a brief lecture, most of the attendees set out for a night hike around the BFEC grounds and on the Kokosing Gap Trail. The lecturer played recordings of owl calls in the hopes of attracting real owls, and, indeed, we did finally manage to lure in a barred owl just at the end of our hike. It flew directly over our heads and hovered in the vicinity for maybe five minutes, echoing the recording with its own calls. We made it back to the car around 9:45, so, yes, it was a long day, but at least it ended on a fun note.
And now it’s Thursday: my Wednesday.
Starting Things
I am SO bad at starting projects. In college, it wasn’t unusual for me to arrive at class in the morning having just pulled an all-nighter in order to finish a paper just by the skin of my teeth. Amazingly, I usually received high marks on those papers, which really only served to reward a bad habit. I must have been doing something right, right? (How did I ever stay up so late? I can barely manage 11pm these days.)
Today, I know better; I realize that procrastination only serves to create a frazzled me and that, no matter how well-written my college writings might have been, they probably would have been better had I chosen not to cram their composition into the few hours before they were due. Yet, still, I procrastinate.
Maybe it’s that I just don’t know where to start. I was not quite five years old the last time I made a significant move (i.e., the entire household had to be moved), so, needless to say, my involvement in the process was negligible, and now I find myself at a loss as to where to begin packing. The fact of the matter is that an awful lot of what needs to be moved — books, recordings, kitchen things — are going to be in use until shortly before moving day. Well, I suppose the books (and there are a LOT of them) could be packed now, but I see little point in tripping over boxes of books for the next two months. Kitchen things will obviously be in use until we move, and naturally we need our furniture and clothes.
So I guess I’ll put off doing any serious packing for a few weeks. Procrastination might just serve me well, this time.
Sharon Faith
I just found out a couple of days ago that my seventh grade math and science teacher, Mrs. Price, died of ovarian cancer earlier this month. She was only 50. Though she was diagnosed, apparently, back in 2009, I didn’t even know that she had been ill, and I probably hadn’t seen her since sometime in the spring of 2005, shortly before I moved out here.
A little bit old-school in her methods (at least when I knew her), Mrs. Price wasn’t always one of the “fun” teachers, though she did have a sense of humor, which she used sparingly and to good effect. She was an educator of genuine integrity: patient, concerned, and compassionate. I didn’t have an easy time in middle school; I was ceaselessly bullied, and by the time I was in seventh grade I had begun to pay very little attention to my schoolwork and was falling behind. Of all my teachers, Mrs. Price was the one who expressed genuine concern and who tried to work with me at a time when I was experiencing, for the first time in my life, what I would later know as true depression. It seems to me that Mrs. Price was also my eighth grade homeroom teacher, but my memories of the two or three months of eighth grade that I spent in public school are blurred almost beyond recognition at this point, so I may be wrong.
I did see her on occasion in later years, and she never failed to stop for a quick chat if we happened to run into each other. From what little I’ve been able to learn of her final illness, it appears that she was able to attend her son’s wedding only two days before she died: a beautifully tragic end to a life that was far too short.
Being Frugal
Living where we’ve lived for the last few years has been a lesson in making the best of a not-entirely-ideal situation. The neighborhood leaves a great deal to be desired, and I’ve never felt entirely at home here. On the other hand, we’ve lived here relatively cheaply, which has given us a degree of financial freedom to do, by and large and within reason, what we like. We’ve taken a few nice vacations. We eat out when we want. We’ve kept ourselves technologically current.
In spite of this, I don’t really view myself as a materialistic person. I hate shopping for clothes and rarely do it; I wear my clothes until they start falling apart. My car is nine years old and I plan to drive it until it dies. I rarely feel that I need the latest thing — electronic gadgets being the occasional exception. In fact, when it comes to shopping, my only real vice over the years has been my obsession with hording books and music.
I have dozens and dozens of unread books sitting on my shelves: all books that I want and intend to read; I never buy something in which I’m not really interested. I own hundreds of recordings: mostly classical music, but some other genres, too. I have a growing stack of unopened New Yorkers sitting on the bottom shelf of my night stand. I intend to read all of these books, and to listen to all of these recordings, and I suppose buying this new house is the perfect opportunity. We’ll be pinching pennies for a few months (years?), but I have an enormous personal library at my fingertips, and I finally have the perfect opportunity to take advantage of it. No more new purchases for a while.
Although I have pre-ordered season 4 of Mad Men…
We usually leave town at least once every week — usually on the weekend — because, sometimes, I just need a change of scenery. I suppose staying in on weekends — at least a couple of times a month — would also be a good idea; it might even be enjoyable now that we’ll be living in an enjoyable home. There are several hiking trails just a few miles from us, so we can always take advantage of those when the weather is good. On a walk at the BFEC on Sunday, we saw quite a few branches still down after all the snow and ice storms we’ve had. The process of clearing the downed trees has only just begun.
Spring Forward
After a really beautiful, sunny, almost warm Saturday, Sunday has dawned grey and cold; winter still has some life left in it, but the forecast for the coming week does show improvement. I’ve never thought of myself as someone affected by SAD, but February and March haven’t been particularly kind to my mood. As winter drags on, it drags me down.
I’m still fretting about the new house. It’s too late to turn back now, but I’m still worried that we’ve overextended ourselves, that we’ll end up in the poorhouse over this deal. I’d feel much better about the whole thing if we could put more money down on the house — or at least as much as we had originally planned to put down — but the increased fees associated with making the purchase did away with that dream. I’m still holding out some hope that we’ll be able to scrape together a little more by the time we go to closing, but I’m not overly optimistic on that front. (Maybe I’ll feel less doom-ridden once the weather warms up and it stops raining every other day.) I’ll worry considerably less if our current home sells within a reasonable amount of time — although I haven’t quite decided what constitutes “reasonable.” We haven’t put it on the market yet, largely due to logistical concerns, and we know we’ll have to pay two mortgages for a few months, anyway.
I don’t have many plans for the day: some laundry, maybe, and perhaps I’ll find a little ambition and start organizing/cleaning out a closet or something. Just the abstract thought of packing is exhausting, daunting.
Don’t forget to set your clocks forward an hour!
Whirlwind
Life has been a real whirlwind since I turned 30. First I break my arm and end up with an unexpected month off from work, and, the next thing I know, we’re buying a house. We placed an offer less than a week after first seeing the house, and, today, we went to the bank to set up the particulars of the mortgage. The fees associated with making the purchase ran a little higher than I expected, and I went white as a sheet on seeing the figure that we would be expected to bring to closing.
We will probably put less down on the purchase than we had originally intended due to the increased fees (the loan officer said it was something about changes to Freddie Mac, which I didn’t quite grasp), which means our monthly payments will be a bit larger than I would have liked. We will also be carrying the mortgage on this house until it sells, so the situation isn’t entirely ideal. I would have prefered to have saved a bit longer before making a purchase, but the house seemed too good to pass up. I just need to let go and trust that it will all work out in the end. I’m a born worrier, though, so…. easier said than done. (Scientific tests have proven that I spend 86.8% of my day worrying.)
I really want new furniture for the living room, but that may have to wait a few months. We’ll have a housewarming party only after I have my new furniture. And that’s my final answer.
February Thunder
Back to work tomorrow. I’d thought that I would have returned to work after my appointment last Tuesday, but the doctor suggested waiting out the remainder of the last week. It was just as well, I guess, as the extra time allowed me to try to get some things in order. Some of my insurance statements are coming back with not-altogether encouraging results, so I guess I’m going to have to make a few calls this week. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I don’t get bad news, as the surgery was expensive – more than I would have thought.
We’re getting torrential rain with embedded thunderstorms tonight. At 11:30pm, it’s 50 degrees outside. Spring is on its way.
