I’m an idiot.
Yes. Most of you who know me are likely nodding in agreement right now, but people in dire need of some brutal self-truths are usually the last to realize such things.
This isn’t anything new. My family, friends and pretty much everyone here at work have basically come to terms with my sluggish mental comprehension. They know that when explaining things that might be particularly hard for me to grasp, they must talk very slow and sometimes draw helpful diagrams.
Like, at work, when they tried to explain the concept of profit and loss. Or the time when my parents told me that most high school kids did not still sleep with their mommy and daddy at that age.
Now, I’m not a complete idiot. By that, I mean I can do most day-to-day things by myself, like ordering a pizza over the phone, successfully operating a toilet, or putting my shoes on the correct feet. (Though I do admit I have driven all the way to work before realizing I put my underwear on over my pants.)
But, for the most part, I spend much of the day in a clueless state.
A fine example of my lack of any measurable sense of aptitude would be my purchase of some reading glasses last summer. My eyesight has been slowly fading, and this makes sense, of course. Most folks my age (early 30s, cough) have glasses of some sort, and over the past few years, I’ve noticed words becoming fuzzier and smaller. So, I started wearing some low strength prescription glasses.
But last year while on vacation with my kids, I forgot my glasses. I slipped into a bookstore and found a pair of what I believed to be some acceptable and -- even though my children and friends would soon make fun of them -- stylish reading specs. They were even bifocal reading glasses, so as my vision deteriorated through time, I would be able to simply look down through the stronger bottom half for better sight.
I used these glasses on a constant basis. If I was working or reading, and I wasn’t able to find them, everything stopped. I had have to have my glasses to see what I was doing. I thought they were even better than my old prescription glasses.
Until, that is, a recent night last week when my buddy looked through my specs.
“Uh, what’s the magnification on these?” he asked as he tested them out.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I just picked them up at a bookstore, and I’ve used them ever since. I love ‘em.”
“Well, do you use the bifocal part?”
“No, I’m not that bad off yet,” I said with a chuckle.
“Then, uh, why use them if you’re not looking through the bifocals?”
“Because the regular magnification is perfect for me,” I said. “It really helps.”
“Uh, there is no regular magnification,” he said as he handed the pair back to me. “The top part is not magnified. It’s just a clear plastic lens. It’s just like you are you using your regular vision.”
I grabbed the glasses and put them on, indignant. “No,” I said. “That’s not correct. The top part is magnified. These glasses help out tremendously.”
I pulled them off and on to compare. Everything did look the same. Another friend took them and looked through the lenses.
“No, Rob,” the other friend said, “there’s no difference. The bifocal is the only part of the lens that’s magnified, you big dork.”
So, for almost a year, I’ve been wearing glasses to help me read, thinking all this time that they were invaluable for my everyday routine, when in fact, I was looking through clear, unmagnified plastic lenses.
What an idiot.
Yes. Most of you who know me are likely nodding in agreement right now, but people in dire need of some brutal self-truths are usually the last to realize such things.
This isn’t anything new. My family, friends and pretty much everyone here at work have basically come to terms with my sluggish mental comprehension. They know that when explaining things that might be particularly hard for me to grasp, they must talk very slow and sometimes draw helpful diagrams.
Like, at work, when they tried to explain the concept of profit and loss. Or the time when my parents told me that most high school kids did not still sleep with their mommy and daddy at that age.
Now, I’m not a complete idiot. By that, I mean I can do most day-to-day things by myself, like ordering a pizza over the phone, successfully operating a toilet, or putting my shoes on the correct feet. (Though I do admit I have driven all the way to work before realizing I put my underwear on over my pants.)
But, for the most part, I spend much of the day in a clueless state.
A fine example of my lack of any measurable sense of aptitude would be my purchase of some reading glasses last summer. My eyesight has been slowly fading, and this makes sense, of course. Most folks my age (early 30s, cough) have glasses of some sort, and over the past few years, I’ve noticed words becoming fuzzier and smaller. So, I started wearing some low strength prescription glasses.
But last year while on vacation with my kids, I forgot my glasses. I slipped into a bookstore and found a pair of what I believed to be some acceptable and -- even though my children and friends would soon make fun of them -- stylish reading specs. They were even bifocal reading glasses, so as my vision deteriorated through time, I would be able to simply look down through the stronger bottom half for better sight.
I used these glasses on a constant basis. If I was working or reading, and I wasn’t able to find them, everything stopped. I had have to have my glasses to see what I was doing. I thought they were even better than my old prescription glasses.
Until, that is, a recent night last week when my buddy looked through my specs.
“Uh, what’s the magnification on these?” he asked as he tested them out.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I just picked them up at a bookstore, and I’ve used them ever since. I love ‘em.”
“Well, do you use the bifocal part?”
“No, I’m not that bad off yet,” I said with a chuckle.
“Then, uh, why use them if you’re not looking through the bifocals?”
“Because the regular magnification is perfect for me,” I said. “It really helps.”
“Uh, there is no regular magnification,” he said as he handed the pair back to me. “The top part is not magnified. It’s just a clear plastic lens. It’s just like you are you using your regular vision.”
I grabbed the glasses and put them on, indignant. “No,” I said. “That’s not correct. The top part is magnified. These glasses help out tremendously.”
I pulled them off and on to compare. Everything did look the same. Another friend took them and looked through the lenses.
“No, Rob,” the other friend said, “there’s no difference. The bifocal is the only part of the lens that’s magnified, you big dork.”
So, for almost a year, I’ve been wearing glasses to help me read, thinking all this time that they were invaluable for my everyday routine, when in fact, I was looking through clear, unmagnified plastic lenses.
What an idiot.
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