My Dad says I have the weirdest eyes he’s ever seen. (He’s an optometrist.) I have one eye that’s near-sighted and one that’s far-sighted, so Dad tells me that as I get older, I can just depend on the right for reading and the left for distance, like when I’m driving. It’s a good system, really, except for that wide visual middle-ground of slight imperfection. It’s the subtlest of softening in my focus, a ten-percent smoothing effect at most, but it’s been raising questions in me lately.
I have a pair of glasses, but I only tend to wear them if I’m on a long writing day at the computer. These marathon days usually take place at my favorite café, where the fluorescent bathroom lighting is beyond scary. So I’m in the restroom one day, washing my hands, looking at myself in this disturbing combo of unusually accurate vision and terrible lighting. And I find myself wondering: Is this the real me? Is this the way I really look? Whoa. What about those times when I was perfectly bare-mineraled and gently lit and I glimpsed myself in a mirror, reflected smoothly in the middle of my soft eye-focal-space? I looked damn good those times! Was that not real?