Rendered Fat Content


Collection of
Barnett and Annalee Newman:
Eyeglasses, in case (20th century)

" … everything becomes clearer."

My eyeglasses collect schmutz better than any other substance known to man. I cannot keep up with them. Further, this schmutz seems invulnerable to any but a serious professional's hand. I, for instance, am powerless to clean my glasses. The Muse is forever noticing that I probably cannot see anything through the grimy layer accumulated on my lenses. She's apt to snatch them from my face, take them into the kitchen, and subject them to vigorous scrubbing before returning them, disgusted at my lack of hygiene and caring. I have grown indifferent and consider it my fate to move through the world half-blinded by schmutz. I occasionally visit a local optometrist to get that stuff professionally removed. My latest visit started a mystery that entertained me for two full weeks.

The person cleaning my glasses noted that the lenses had become seriously scratched in addition to the almost impenetrable layer of Schmutz.
Fortunately, she noted, if they'd made the lenses, they were warrantied against scratching for two years. I replied that I'd just bought them six months before. She was astounded, insisting that she'd never seen lenses accumulate so many scratches in such little time. I felt especially talented at something hearing this. But, searching the records, neither she nor the receptionist could find any record of my purchasing those glasses in the prior six months. I said I'd find the receipt at home and bring it in so they could see what I insisted.

Two weeks later, I returned with my receipt for the glasses, but the clerk couldn't find a matching record in their files. She showed me that the glasses I'd received from them in January were a different kind of frame. Might these be an older pair? That would certainly explain the scratching.

Could it be, I marveled, that I'd somehow mistaken my backup pair for my primary ones? I retained a prior prescription to wear when painting or doing something that might damage my good glasses. I fled home and fetched what I had convinced myself were my backup pair, only to see that they were scratchless and clear; not even the usual impenetrable layer of schmutz clouded those babies. I returned to the optometrist's shop for a professional assessment. Yes, what I'd mistaken for my backups were, indeed, my newest primary pair, and the ones with scratched-up lenses should be relegated to the backup role in the future. I might consider painting one earpiece a different color so I can tell the difference.

Like everyone, I believe I'm Honing my presence here as I continue accumulating experiences. In this episode, I had been cast unawares in the role of Mr. Magoo. I feel reasonably sure that I became the butt of one of those unkind jokes professionals share in the course of their days, one about some absolute idiot they came across, one they wondered how they got along in the world, one I've poked fun at myself over the years. I had no idea that I had successfully fooled myself. I'd convinced myself that the optometrist was a lousy record keeper. I set out to clue them in but clued myself in instead. I marvel at how much better I've been seeing since. Once the scales fall from one's eyes, everything becomes clearer.

©2023 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

blog comments powered by Disqus

Made in RapidWeaver