Still Rolling Around: My Arms Ain’t Long Enough( A Tale of First Reading Glasses)

Welcome to Still Rolling Around — the new home for all the things that never quite fit anywhere else but refuse to be forgotten.

Like the back cupholder in your car, this series is where the dog treats, busted pens, loose change, and crumpled reminders of real life collect. Not important enough to organize, but way too real to toss.

These stories don’t belong in a travelogue or a shop tale. They’re the random moments, small observations, and everyday chaos that make everything else make sense.

They may not follow a theme, but they hold the glue — the in-between parts of a life lived wide open.

So here they are, finally, where they belong.
Still rolling around.

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"Eye Spy: My First Real Glasses"

Other than reading the eye chart at the DMV once every seven years — or that triangle thing in elementary school — I’ve never really had a proper eye exam.

I’ve been lucky. I could read signs from miles away. The kids were always amazed. I had perfect night vision. I could wander around a pitch-dark house just by ambient light — microwave clock glow, hallway nightlight, the soft reflection off the dog’s eyes.

Then, a few years ago, something started to shift.

By the end of the workday, my eyes would hurt. The screen got blurry. I figured it had to be the fluorescent lights or too much screen time, so I ditched the overheads and got a blue light filter.

Didn’t help.

Next thing I knew, I couldn’t read fine print. Not on packaging, not in books, not even the directions on medicine bottles. But I didn’t have great insurance, so I did what any frugal and slightly stubborn man would do: I grabbed a pair of readers from the Dollar General spin rack.

Yeah, yeah — I know.

It wasn’t so much that my eyes were going bad… it was more like my arms just weren’t long enough to hold stuff far enough away anymore. Eventually I started using my phone camera to zoom in on things just so I could read them. Modern problems, modern solutions.

So two weeks ago, I finally had a real eye exam. Full deal: lights, puffs of air, glowing dyes, and the dreaded “Which is better—one or two?” roulette. They wrote me up a prescription and told me to expect a little adjustment.

Today, I picked up my first real pair of glasses.

Not just readers — progressives.

Which, apparently, come with a learning curve. The optician kindly warned me that it would take time for my brain and my eyes to figure out how to focus in the right part of the lens. What she didn’t say was that I’d spend the rest of the afternoon bobbing my head like a confused pigeon, trying to find that magic spot where everything comes into focus.

But when I do manage to aim the right way?

I can actually see again.

At 49, I guess this is just part of the ride. Even if all I hear in my head is Sol Rosenberg from the Jerky Boys saying, “I’ll bring all my glasses and my shoes…”

So here I sit in the parking lot, glasses in hand, gently adjusting to my new life as a human periscope.

And for the first time in a while...

I’m seeing again.