The binoculars—double the size of a normal pair—sit lying on the entryway bench. Brought outside yesterday after a “Is that a deer?” moment with a lesser-sighted Grandma, who was told no by me—the golden caramel cow’s thick build made it obvious it wasn’t. To me, anyway. And to better assist, I picked up the magnifiers, relieved that their months of disuse had come to an end.
At the time of my research, those binoculars—with a name like Astro or something star-gazing adjacent—had me salivating. The love of a good, handy pair, but also one I might substitute for a telescope, was more than I was asking for. The dream of it had sent my nature-loving-soul careening toward space, believing that once in my hands, I’d be unraveling the mysteries of the universe.
The reality? To lift them required a sustained athletic shoulder press. Their weight meant exertion, and when Paula heaved them to her eyes yesterday, she breathed her fiery “Oh jeese,” usually reserved for offensive or hurtful actions. But aren’t they? Offensive, that is. The tripod necessary to ease muscle tension—and to enjoy a prolonged gander into intimate spaces—is nonexistent, missing from the added accessories. And maybe, had the manufacturer considered my broken heart—fallen from grace, grounded for eternity from celestial wonders—they might’ve been more considerate.
After her grunt, the too-large specs evaded her.
“How do I focus this anyway?” she asked.
The next thing I knew, they were in my dad’s hands, his finger on the rolling adjuster.
“It’s right here,” he said in an equally exasperated tone. “It’s the only thing on them.”
All this for her to replant them against her face, lift them up and down, look, and pick them up again. I offered the idea to look first at what she wanted to see, then put the binoculars to follow. Finally, when it worked, she said, “That is one big black cow.”
And that was it. For now, I’ll set them back in their dust-collecting spot adjacent to the piano until the next unsuspecting victim asks for their fateful turn.
Things—so many freaking things—onto which hopes get hitchhiked. Then attacked by a swarm of disappointment, the buzz makes me believe I should have known better. I should have known I’d hate those binoculars with all my might—not because of their mediocrity, but for their failure to deliver a better life experience.
And that’s the gamble. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 