I get my first pair of specs at the age of 6. My father is an ophthalmologist, so I have my eyes tested for the hell of it, and he discovers that, not only am I astigmatic, but one of my eyes is mildly short-sighted and the other mildly long.
This means they sort of cancel each other out, and I don't really need the glasses, not yet.
Sometimes I lie on my bed and I hold the specs by their arms up above me, and I squint at the ceiling light through each lens in turn and I marvel at how the light appears fat and blurry in the right lens, and sharp and tiny in the left.
But after a while, the long-sighted eye joins the other in its romp into myopia, and the astigmatism marches on.
By the time I'm 10, I'm wearing specs full-time and in a way it seems appropriate as I am already the school spod.
I let it pigeonhole me to some extent - I give up trying to be good at sports, although enforced activity means I regularly get a netball in my face anyway, and I retreat bookishly behind the frames.
When I turn 18, my father and decent toric technology determine my eyes eligible for contact lenses, and it seems like a red letter day. Suddenly I have a face again.
And I wear the lenses all throughout university and law school and my first job.
At least I think I do, because when I look at photos taken during that time, I'm not wearing specs. Not ever.
But when I move to a new company, my lenses don't come with me - the aircon's too strong and my work requires squinting at a monitor, and so I find myself not bothering to put them in any more.
But I hate bespectacled me so much that if anyone comes near with a camera, I whip off my specs and I smile before shoving them back on my nose.
Thus, doctored by vanity, my photographic history continues seamlessly as before.
Sometimes I toy with the idea of getting my eyes lasered, but I'm put off by horror stories, and by the memory of a French teacher who could only afford to get one done and so ended up having to wear glasses anyway.
And my dad, the ocular oracle, keeps saying, "This is a new-ish procedure and I'm not convinced it's safe - I'd wait a while - you've only got one pair of eyes". And I'm certainly not going to argue with him.
By the time I'm 30, my eyesight is so poor that the only time I'm barefaced is in the shower or in bed. Unless something is right in front of me, I can only make out shapes and colours.
I'm resigned to my disability, but occasionally I feel flickers of unease. What if I lost my glasses, or broke them? What if the zombies came? I'd be utterly useless, the first one to get munched down. This bothers me more than it should.
Then, just before Christmas, my dad says to me, "I think it's time you had laser surgery". And everything changes.
This means they sort of cancel each other out, and I don't really need the glasses, not yet.
Sometimes I lie on my bed and I hold the specs by their arms up above me, and I squint at the ceiling light through each lens in turn and I marvel at how the light appears fat and blurry in the right lens, and sharp and tiny in the left.
But after a while, the long-sighted eye joins the other in its romp into myopia, and the astigmatism marches on.
By the time I'm 10, I'm wearing specs full-time and in a way it seems appropriate as I am already the school spod.
I let it pigeonhole me to some extent - I give up trying to be good at sports, although enforced activity means I regularly get a netball in my face anyway, and I retreat bookishly behind the frames.
When I turn 18, my father and decent toric technology determine my eyes eligible for contact lenses, and it seems like a red letter day. Suddenly I have a face again.
And I wear the lenses all throughout university and law school and my first job.
At least I think I do, because when I look at photos taken during that time, I'm not wearing specs. Not ever.
But when I move to a new company, my lenses don't come with me - the aircon's too strong and my work requires squinting at a monitor, and so I find myself not bothering to put them in any more.
But I hate bespectacled me so much that if anyone comes near with a camera, I whip off my specs and I smile before shoving them back on my nose.
Thus, doctored by vanity, my photographic history continues seamlessly as before.
Sometimes I toy with the idea of getting my eyes lasered, but I'm put off by horror stories, and by the memory of a French teacher who could only afford to get one done and so ended up having to wear glasses anyway.
And my dad, the ocular oracle, keeps saying, "This is a new-ish procedure and I'm not convinced it's safe - I'd wait a while - you've only got one pair of eyes". And I'm certainly not going to argue with him.
By the time I'm 30, my eyesight is so poor that the only time I'm barefaced is in the shower or in bed. Unless something is right in front of me, I can only make out shapes and colours.
I'm resigned to my disability, but occasionally I feel flickers of unease. What if I lost my glasses, or broke them? What if the zombies came? I'd be utterly useless, the first one to get munched down. This bothers me more than it should.
Then, just before Christmas, my dad says to me, "I think it's time you had laser surgery". And everything changes.