I will be forty-nine years old in October. Soon I will be so old that I'll begin typing the number instead of the word, because it takes less effort. At forty-nine, I will have been wearing glasses for over forty-three years (pardon me while I wipe away the sweat from operating my keyboard).
Because I wear glasses, I have to consult eye care professionals from time to time. Because I am diabetic, I have to see an ophthalmic physician, to make certain that my retinas are holding up under the pressure of my delicate condition.
My ophthalmologist is Dr. Leslie B. Cunningham, of Cunningham, Campbell and Taylor, a consortium of medical doctors (which makes me wonder if they ever have to knock on doors and loudly announce their status, as Dr. Agent Scully used to do on "The X-Files") who specialize in ocular care and maintenance. I went to the office in Dixie Lee Junction yesterday for a check-up. My young bride was forced to drive me there, because they must dilate my pupils. The last time I went, then drove home, it was quite an adventure... for all the people who were sharing the road with me.
In the last several years, I have been forced to remove my glasses for the purpose of reading, due to my advancing age (which we've already covered). My spectacles are now for watching ESPN and driving to our new local liquor store, The Grove Wine & Spirits. If I ever get that job in Oak Ridge that I want so badly, I'll wear my glasses to drive over there... and to watch sports and drive to the liquor store.
Anyway, we were sitting in the waiting area, and my young bride observed that the digs in this place were much nicer than the old place in Loudon, which is true. She then pointed out that the "Sports Illustrated" that she had picked up had nothing in it about fashion, decorating, or shoes. This was also true, but it was her first comment that got me to notice my surroundings.
I wonder if the physicians who inhabit the building did their own decorating. Or if, perhaps, they hired a former jock to do the decorating for them.
The office color scheme is a sort of muted green, somewhere between pea soup and olive drab. The walls are in squares of about 5" X 5" light, then dark, but all green. When I was in the examination area, I visited three rooms, which all had art prints on the walls. The colors in the prints were orange, brown, red, white and black. That was the entire color palette.
And none of the colors were pastels. They were stark and masculine. The place looks like an office space designed for an NFL coach. I, personally, was very comfortable there, with or without my glasses.
When Dr. Cunningham came to take a look at my eyebones, he was preoccupied with politics, which I am always willing to discuss with a reasonable person. I discovered that the good doctor is, like myself, a fiscal conservative, and a social liberal. What that means is that he believes everyone has rights, not just people who agree with him. However, he does not want the government to be a tax and spend machine.
He was, apparently, unimpressed with the previous administration's ways of cutting taxes and spending like there was no tomorrow. Nor is he very taken with the present administration's socialist tendency to demonize people simply because they are good enough at something to become wealthy.
We Libertarians have a high old time when we find each other, which is rare.
Soon enough, of course, we solved the world's problems with an agreement that minding one's own business was a good day-to-day policy.
Afterwards, my young bride and I passed through Lenoir City on the way home, and stopped by the Brown Cup Coffee Company yet again. This time I had a real, live macchiato, with the steamed milk-foam on top. The Boss had a Mochaccino and a piece of lemon-berry-something-or-other.
At forty-8, it's tough for me to remember everything.