If there’s one thing I’ve always been proud of, it’s my perfect vision. Or, more accurately, what used to be my perfect vision.

I suppose that the years of sneakily reading books past my bedtime with just a flashlight (and sometimes nothing more than moonlight) illuminating the pages were bound to catch up with me. I suppose not even I could get away with all the hours I’ve spent staring – without rest – at all the computer screens of my life. I suppose it was only a matter of time that the headaches came more frequently, that signs I could easily read 50 feet away became no more than blurry shapes, that my tear ducts seemed perpetually dry (except when I’m crying).

In true Iris fashion, I’ve spent the past two years ignoring my increasingly declining eyesight because, most of the time, it’s really not that bad. But after walking head on to a display of chili con carne (the ‘no beans’ variety) in the Metro Ayala supermarket because I couldn’t see where I was going, I realized that it might be time to correct my sight.

Today, I’m going to attempt to wangle a pair of eyeglasses from my mum. Or better yet, a pair of contact lenses. In green. And then I’ll dye my hair red and try to pass my dark, 5-feet-1-inch self off as Irish.

Wish me luck!