The eyes have had it. Literally.

Last month my children and I went for our annual ocular examinations. The young Youngs passed all their tests with flying colors. Their father, however, didn’t fare so well.

My left (good) eye sees things at a visual acuity of 20-30, which all things considered isn’t bad for a person of my vintage. But the right eye came in at a dismal 20-90, which makes objects like baked potatoes look remarkably similar to brown, spud-sized stones. This can be inconvenient to those of us who already have dental issues that aren’t improved by biting into a potato-shaped bit of pumice some would-be comedian could helpfully place on my plate as a practical joke.

I’m pretty sure my vision’s not improving, either. A few years back I noticed it was becoming difficult for me to ascertain the identity of someone approaching me from a distance, but that’s nothing compared to my current condition. These days it’s difficult if not impossible for me to discern an individual’s gender until he or she is an arm’s length away.

And if that weren’t enough, I woke up one day last week with a painful bruise under my eye; it felt like I had gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. The next day it looked as though I had gone a few rounds with him. Is there anything more unsightly than a sty?  (Aside from two sties, the sort of thing only a lowlife who’d put pumice on a visually impaired person’s plate would think of.)

Unfortunately my vision was just good enough to get an all-too-clear look at myself in mirrors that seem to be everywhere when one despairingly imagines his youthful good looks (see somewhat recent photo at the top of this column) morphing into those of the Elephant Man.

Whoever said good health was wasted on the young wasn’t kidding. As a callow youth I vowed if I were fortunate enough to live into my dotage I’d never become one of those insufferably boring old goats who couldn’t stop verbally sharing far-too-vivid information about various medical procedures he (or she, in case the elderly person in question is a crone rather than a geezer) had experienced, was about to undergo, or could possibly endure in the future.

But while the thought of becoming one of those fellows still appalls me, I can see how such things happen.

My lower back is stiff on a good day and painful on a bad one, but complaining about it aloud doesn’t make it feel any better. No normal person wants or needs to hear about my artificial hip, or that little piece of net inside me that allegedly neutralizes a once-pesky hernia.

Who wants to hear that every six months a dermatologist removes various and sundry things from my once-invulnerable body, which magically appear despite the fact I all but dress myself in a burqa every time the sun comes out. Or that I once had to have an unsightly growth surgically removed, and halfway through the ordeal sensed the unmistakable whiff of barbecue followed by the horrible realization it was I who smelled like the main course.

I’ve had two different -ectomies (vas- and append-), and I’m convinced the only reason I haven’t endured a mast- or a hyster- is I am not biologically eligible for them. And no one but no one wants to hear about colonoscopies, although (spoiler alert) in reality the day-before preparation is far worse than the procedure itself, which the recipient neither feels nor will ever have any lucid recollection of.

There is simply no good reason to complain about one’s health, particularly when most of us have far more to be thankful for than we have to bellyache about. I can breathe freely, even after climbing several flights of stairs.

I can walk to any store from the most distant spot in the parking lot, and with a bit of good judgment I’m quick enough to cross a street before getting run down by a bus. I can throw a baseball with enough accuracy and velocity to help young folks become confident they can hit it. And I still have the youthful good looks necessary to catch the eyes of legions of admiring females.

Or so I could pretend until last week, when I visited Dunkin Donuts. The pleasant young man behind the counter took my order and punched it in. Here’s what appeared on his cash register’s screen, ironically in font big and clear enough for me (and anyone else nearby) to read.

                                                1 Cinnamon Raisin Bagel

                                                1 Senior Citizen Discount

Oh well. At least someone around here still has 20-20 vision!

Andy Young teaches literacy and English at a local high school, where he can visually recognize a few special colleagues and students from a distance of more than 10 feet.