Heavenly Beverley : The Rise (Of Glasses) And Fall Of Spontaneity

This post contains my interpretations regarding the effects of wearing spectacles interfering with sex. Continue to read at your own peril!

I began a short-lived and passionate first affair with glasses in my mid-twenties. My ex was an optometrist and was delighted to use me as a guinea pig. I was convinced that wearing glasses added an intellectual aura to my persona. I actually looked like a cross between a startled owl and a peacock. Remember the 1980s. The top perm. The short mullet beneath the tight curls. Shoulder pads, puffed turquoise sleeves and tartan skirt. And round spectacle frames. Need I say more...?

Having discovered I could see perfectly well without the tiny prescription glasses, I then turfed all eyewear accessories for fifteen years. Fast forward to my late thirties and newspapers, books and street directories all appeared to have rapidly shrinking and blurring print. I was thirty-eight when I reluctantly accepted reading glasses into my life, astonished at the instant improvement. I was hooked.

I opted for multifocals upon needing to wear glasses more of the time. Except I was still taking them on and off. Frequently. I endured a number of years when I would leave my specs anywhere than on my face. I lost them twice on the same day at the beach. I left them in trees I was trimming. I accidentally buried them in the compost heap. In the dirty washing basket. With shopping. I wore a granny chain but ended up tossing that piece of finery. Surely, I wasn't OLD enough for a chain around my neck and I still forgot my glasses were there anyway.

Michael was having similar issues. At the age of forty-two, he suddenly and perpetually needed to wear glasses. This seriously cramped his welding style as his visor wasn't quite deep enough for him to tip his head to see what he was welding. He became an expert at welding using his hearing and feeling, along with his sight. Unfortunately, the feeling bit often augered an impending injury.

With my entry into middle-age, I decided to just leave my glasses on my face. This removed dozens of opportunities for me to lose them. I began to be interested in choosing more stylish frames. Not that I believed they did much chop for my appearance. I still believe some photographs of me suggest I have had a stroke...

These days, I finally have two sets of specs in case some ghastly incident befalls one pair. I could have used having spare glasses a number of years ago when I ran over my only set in a shopping centre carpark...

One of my glasses has a smouldering leopard print frame. I am sure that they do not add to an illusion of smoulderingness to me, except when I've been happily poking around a fire. They should be my favourite pair as they have spring-loaded hinges and hold better on my head. However, my current favourite pair is a lacy red and jet black creation, which have been known to plummet to the ground due to excessive sweating. Like in Queensland or at SLAB.

Most problematic issues occur when we are not wearing our glasses. In bed. In the shower. A nightly sprint to the loo. Our weigh-ins immediately after morning ablutions. "How much weight have you lost, darling?". "No idea. I haven't found my glasses yet"...

I have repeatedly stated that middle-age and beyond means we have slowed our pace of life. As much as we can. The only spontaneous decisions we usually make are to sneak off for a nanna nap or an early night snuggled in bed with a book.

This morning, we experienced a most unexpected burst of spontaneity. We both felt, at the same time, that a bit of rumpy-bumpy might be on the cards. Ooh, the excitement. We then had to locate that little tube of lubricant. One of the bitches of menopause is unpleasant internal dryness, which necessitates the usage of additional moisturiser.

I managed to pull out the aforementioned tube triumphantly. Without my glasses. Then we realised that the tube was unopened and needed the foil seal removed. Michael struggled with this task, eventually donning his glasses in frustration. Mission accomplished. Glasses off. We eagerly prepared for some private and giggly nooky. Then the lid of the lubricant was stiffer than anticipated. On with the glasses. We opened it, applied the stuff to the appropriate areas and then closed the lid. Which sprang open. On with the glasses. The tube was finally snapped shut and returned to the drawer.

I was on the verge of hysteria by this stage. And just as well Michael was keen, or the whole exercise might have ended then and there. At last, we became Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr on the beach, in the surf, with the waves crashing around us. (Apologies to "From Here To Eternity".)

What we could really hear was the Beagle snoring under a bedside chair.