Horses, Long Island Tea, and Bifocals

I wear glasses.  Not just glasses. I wear bifocals. 

I tried the Progressive lenses (hidden lines) but had difficulty adjusting to that vague transition between the two strengths.  I constantly teetered between feeling nauseous and drunk, the latter a vague relic of youth.  My basic philosophy is, “If I am going to feel tipsy when I walk, a Long Island Tea had better be in one hand”.  And so, I had to check my pride and accept the half-moon circles at the bottom of my lenses, just another visual announcement screaming my ever-progressing age.  I am embarrassed to admit that wearing glasses was difficult to accept.  Most of my life I had great vision. Actually, it was 20/15 which I proudly touted as better than perfect. (I know that 20/15 is only slightly above average, but my ego needed to proclaim its better-than-perfect status.)  I had no understanding or empathy for those inconvenienced by corrective lenses, at least not until that day. That day when without warning, I was one of those.  Within a short span of time, I went from better-than-perfect, to stocking cheaters in every corner of my world so I might easily and stealthily sneak them out to decipher what I once could read without effort, to wearing bifocals.  It’s as if you are walking towards a cliff, you don’t see your approaching demise until one day, like any good cartoon character, you look down, your feet spinning in air, and realize you are no longer on solid ground. 

My cousin Wade Lee is a farrier, he shoes horses.  He is also a beloved pastor. (Lee is not his last name; for Southerners it is not uncommon to be called by your first and middle names.)  I’ve seen photos of him working, hunched over, the horse’s leg bent at the knee (do horses have knees?), the hoof between Wade’s legs.  Using massive rasps, pliers, and cutters, Wade digs deep around the hoof cleaning out the crap, literally, and grime. He files and trims the hooves before polishing off the job with shoes.  I am not sure of the connection between shoeing horses and saving souls (soles), working with uncooperative four-legged creatures, and leading two-legged creatures down the path of righteousness, but I am sure there is one.  

I thought of Wade Lee as Ngọc bích, nail tech, attacked my feet with similar equipment.  It has been over 14 months since my last pedicure.  This personal indulgence that was once enjoyed on a regular schedule became one of many COVID 19 lockdown casualties.  It is not as if my feet were intentionally neglected for over a year, I tried, but I now have obstacles in the way that once did not exist.  First, I must be able to reach my toes to care for them. My mid-section has grown thicker over the years and although I can still touch my toes, when scrunched up, my belly impinges on my diaphragm and cuts off respiration; I feel light-headed (and without the pleasure of a Long Island Tea).  At best, these attempts can only happen on days my hips and knees are not too stiff to cooperate.  But let’s say my joints are accommodating and I can work in short spurts before leaning back to re-oxygenate my body, I still must be able to see my toes.  Bifocals, remember?!  With my distance vision I can see clearly enough to paint them but only when my leg is fully extended.  Of course, that is beyond arm’s length.  If I bend my legs akimbo, I can touch my toes, but cannot see them unless I tip my head back to peer through those damn semi-circles. Folded like a pretzel with my nose in the air, I must raise my feet eye-level.  And that is just not happening.

Trying to give myself a pedicure is almost as awkward, now, as dressing myself was when I was 9 months pregnant with a 10 pound baby, decades ago.  I remember one morning, only days from the due date, trying to slip on my “unmentionables”.  I could not bend over to reach my feet.  Hell, I could not see my feet (a reoccurring theme). I tried to will them on to no avail. So, I arranged my humongous granny-panties on the floor, let my feet explore for the openings and wiggled them up to my ankles.  Then in one swift movement, while sitting on the side of the bed, I flipped back, kicking my feet into the air and rapidly shimmying my legs like electric scissors until my “necessaries” succumbed to movement and gravity, and found its way to my knees where I gratefully caught them, up righted myself, and triumphantly moved the apparel into place.  I was much younger then and more determined to be independent.  Not so much anymore.

And thus, the appointment with Ngọc bích and her arsenal of human farrier tools.  Taking longer than usual, due to the months and months of pedi-neglect, we had time to visit.  As she clutched what looked like Wade Lee’s rasp to attack my heals, we discussed the pandemic.  I did not experience financial insecurity during the shutdown, but Ngọc bích and her husband were both unemployed for twelve months and now under-employed.   Over the years we have shared stories of our sons, and I could only imagine the worries and heartache my friend had endured to provide for her child.  My friend.  Yes.  My friend whose pain I had not considered although I knew the shop had been closed, my friend who worried over the shortage of vaccines available to her family in Vietnam, my friend who I only knew by a western name used to make her clients comfortable.  And so, we talked.  We shared.  We listened.  And I learned the name used by her family and friends, including me, now.  Ngọc bích.  Pronounced “Ngop Bic” by everyone but me (not for lack of trying or being laughed at).   

Somehow, the tears and giggles improved my self-focused myopic vision, a defect that even bifocals could not have corrected.

Walking out the door, I was hit with a flash of unbridled exuberance; I pawed my right foot at the floor and released a resounding neigh, as I galloped away before anyone noticed.