Now, all of her accompanying text within that email contained useful information, but the one thing I haven't been able to get over is her final statement: "I don't have any glasses on, this must have been before the school nurse figured I was half blind at school."
For now, I'd like to focus on the girl in the cheetah costume: My mother.
Does it really take a brilliant diagnostician to realize that the girl smiling thirty degrees to the left of the camera can't see a dang thing?
Every other person looks as if they've gone through the requisite party ritual of, "Okay, everybody, say, 'Cheese!'" All look at the camera and parrot, "Cheese!" Unless you're poor, blind Lorri, however; in that case you're wearing a vacant smile and staring at nothing.
Now, you could argue that the object of her gaze is merely out of range, that I have no way of knowing what she's looking at. As a terribly, terribly near-sighted person myself (thanks, mom), I heartily and vociferously disagree, as I have pasted this facial expression on my own visage many times, when the contacts are safely soaking in their case, my glasses are on my nightstand, and Derek says something to me that requires a reply. I have to wait for him to move in order to know where to turn my head and aim my voice at; otherwise, no idea. None. Just a blind smile, staring forty paces to the left of the person attempting to interact with me.
Kinda like this, actually.
I wonder how many walls she offered to "Trick or treat" that night. Bless her heart. Still, things could have been worse.
What the heck, 1967?