I’ve reached a complicated age regarding my ability to see. I started wearing glasses in my sophomore year of high school and eventually moved primarily to contact lenses in my mid-20s. As I entered my 40s, I realized that I was having a harder time with reading up close. As a teenager, I remember being so annoyed with my mom as I watched her hold a paper at arm’s length to try and read it. Good lord, I thought, just read it already. I purchased my first set of readers with the lowest magnification required, and once again, appreciated what little teenaged grace I’d had for my mom.
A couple of years later, Lee and I attended a Hail & Farewell where the Colonel did not have his readers and COULD NOT read the notes he’d jotted down to help him. His wife slipped him her readers, and he continued. I was not at that point yet, and although I had much more compassion for him than I did for my mom, I still did not comprehend that it would be coming.
I now have many pairs of reading glasses. In fact, I know which brands I prefer (Peepers!), and I have them stationed everywhere: both end tables in the living room, office, purse, car, laundry room, master bathroom, and junk drawer. It’s complicated but if I’m wearing contacts, I need my readers to read up close. If I’m not wearing my contacts, I need my glasses to see anything far away. Basically, blurry print or blurry people, either way I’m stuck with glasses.
I roll out of bed, grab my glasses, let Scout out to pee, stumble to the coffee pot, plop onto the couch, and remove my glasses so I can check social media and do my NYT games. Why, you are probably wondering, are we even talking about this? Anyone under 40 doesn’t get it, and everyone over 40 probably does. Move on. But I’ve finally reached my point. My eyesight challenges are relevant because I recently lost my glasses and COULD NOT find them. It’s time to SOLVE A MYSTERY.
I’m not super organized but I do have certain things that I try to keep in their place. My keys go into the metal bowl by the front door. My purse hangs nearby. My glasses, sleep at night near my jewelry stand, and usually, rest on the arm of the couch in the mornings, while I read and drink coffee. I have misplaced my glasses before, sometimes I just leave them downstairs accidentally, on the arm, or maybe the kitchen island. I find them the next time I look, no issue.
One morning in early March, I could not find my glasses. Although they were not in their usual spots, I assumed they would turn up at some point during the day, found lying on a pantry shelf, left on the corner of the desk, tucked in the basket with the readers and the remotes on the end table. On about the third day, I was truly puzzled. By this point, they should have turned up. I told Lee, hoping he might stumble across them. He looked in all the places I looked. I was both annoyed and appreciative.
These were a newish pair of glasses. After years of wearing the same old glasses, with a prescription older than many of my shoes, I broke down last year and got a new pair. Flush with insurance that pays for new frames once a year, it seemed like a good idea. I still had my old glasses, although wearing them was like watching life through a dirty window; they were better than nothing.
A week or so passed, and I was at a loss. It was like one of those locked-room mysteries; the glasses were obviously somewhere in the house.
I was reminded of a similar mystery some 10 or so years ago.
Lee’s razor was missing. It was his ancient, must-special-order-blades razor, which usually resided on the edge of the bathtub in the master bathroom. Much like me with my glasses, Lee knew that his razor was somewhere in the house. He grumbled the first week and then resorted to outright accusations. We all lived under a cloud of suspicion. Random bathroom and bedroom inspections became the norm.
He suggested that I’d taken his razor to shave my legs. I laughed. The following week, he mentioned that perhaps I had moved it while cleaning. Again, I laughed.
Rachel, home temporarily as she transitioned from one college to another, was repeatedly accused of taking the razor to shave her legs. She offered a two-fold defense:
- Age: “I’m 21 years old, I don’t need to steal your razor.”
- Lack of Motive: “I wouldn’t use that janky razor if you made me.”
Next suspect, Andrew. I’m not sure Andrew was even shaving at this time. But with Lee’s first, and in his mind, most likely suspect unwilling to break under questioning, he turned his attention to Andrew:
“Did you take my razor? ”
“No.”
The following week, I found myself on hands and knees, looking under the bed for who-knows-what, when I spotted the razor. Perfectly centered under the bed, the blade was separated from the handle, which bore the faint marks of teeth. It had the air of an abandoned boat, floating aimlessly in a sea of carpet.
A new pair of household suspects emerged:
Luke: elderly, gentleman, basset hound.
Britta: feisty, mini-dachshund, with a long rap sheet of priors, including petty theft. With a penchant for bathroom items, Q-tips and lip balm being particular favorites, Britta should have been the number one suspect. It’d been a while since her last theft, and so, she avoided suspicion. Plus, a razor? No one saw that coming.
The mystery was solved. Rachel would like to note that no apologies for false accusations were ever issued. I could not blame Britta for my missing glasses. Last summer, we had to say goodbye to that sweet, old kleptomaniac.
After a week or more had passed, I was resigned to wearing my too-old, too-weak glasses. Once again, I found myself bending over randomly, this time adjusting a rug, when I got a close-up look at the pet bed near the sliding door to the deck. And sure enough, nestled in the center of this small, bluish cushion, were my glasses. I was so relieved, I ignored their slightly crushed state, and laughed out loud.
I have my suspect.
I cannot charge Wolfgang, aka Wolfie, with theft, but he definitely committed obstruction, intentional or otherwise. Also, he has absolutely no remorse.
Please, make me feel better, tell me about a time you lost something. In. Your. House.
Thanks for reading. I’d be lost without you.
Before you go… I was going to end this post by saying, “Now if I could only find my Fitbit.” But after approximately nine months of looking for it, I found it! Last night, as I was looking under the couch cushion for our remote (I’m sounding increasingly like someone who loses everything), I found my Fitbit, pressed into the crease of the couch like a worm trying to avoid sunlight. It was amazing! I did find the remote the next morning, under the couch, right where Lee and I both looked the night before. Wolfie says, “and she wonders why I have no remorse.”
Before You Grow Up 