They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul, and for all I know, that’s true. But in my case, they’re something else, namely a pain in the prat.

Actually, my eyes are as fine as any 76 year-old’s can be. I have a cataract in both eyes, but they’re so tiny they don’t affect my sight. My macula and pressure are A-Ok. My vision without glasses is good enough to pass the DMV eye test.

I don’t, however, have perfect vision at night, which makes night driving an annoyance. My close-up vision is good for most things, but not for detail like threading a needle or reading the fine print. So I get by well without glasses, except when it comes to night driving and such things as threading a needle. And that’s why I have bifocals.

So if I only wear glasses now and then, how can that be a hassle? Believe it or not, it’s a far bigger hassle than it would be if I wore them ALL the time.

How can that be, you ask?

Well, for one thing, if I wore them full-time I’d always know where they were. But since in the course of the day I take them off and put ’em on more often than a politician lies (if that’s possible), I’m forever misplacing both them and the case.

Oh yeah, the case…

To many peeps — and to too many optical businesses — glasses have become less a prosthetic than a fashion statement. There are frames by Gucci, Calvin Klein, Prada, Versace, Giorgio Armani, Ralph Lauren, ad affectatium (though of course they all made in the same factory in downtown Guangzhou). As a result, a lot of peeps change their glasses about as often as they do their skivs. But that’s not me.

My approach to glasses is the same as my approach to cars: I drive ’em till they die. But — also like my cars — I take care of them. And thus my eyeglass case. It has a mortar-proof shell and is big enough to hold a softball. So while it protects my glasses, it’s about as easy to shlep around as an anvil. Since there’s no pocket big enough for it this side of Brobdingnag, the only way I can take it with me is in a murse. And while I don’t find that a threat to my masculinity, I do find it a drag.

Beyond that, the case is held closed by a zipper. For sure it keeps my peepers safe and secure, but it causes another problem. It’s the same problem with all zippers — if you’re not careful, you can catch something in it. Which in the case of my glasses can be its temples, temple tips, rims, nose pads — take yer pick.

Another problem with being a part-time eyeglass guy is I’m forever taking them off and putting them down a lot. And sometimes after I do, I forget where I put them and end up leaning on them or dropping a book on them or doing something equally clumsy.

The way to avoid that is simple — just focus on what I’m doing all the time. It’s a foolproof theory; unfortunately, it’s NOT Dopeproof reality. My concentration wanders like The Lost Tribes, always has and always will … and too often with unfortunate results.

Now here’s the sine qua non of my optical woes: I wouldn’t have any woes in the first place if my glasses weren’t wire rims. But since they are, I do.

The result? Every other week or so I inadvertently mangle some part of my glasses. And when I put them on I look like more of a pathetic old fart than I normally do. And, honestly, while I don’t mind being a pathetic old fart, I don’t wanna LOOK like one.

What to do?

First and foremost, what NOT to do.

What not to do is this: Do NOT try to right the wrong — at least not with your glasses.

You wanna right some wrongs, start with the American health care system (pardon the oxymoron), our inequitable tax structure, our idiotic thieving politicians (pardon the redundancy), or anything else … as long as it’s not your glasses. Because as sure as day follows night, as soon as you get your grubby meat hooks on them you’ll screw them up. And if you screw them up to the full extent of your incompetence, you’ll pay for it royally — both in cash and convenience.

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Small scale salvation

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So now — at last — what should you do?

You should do what I do from the get-go, which is hike down to Eye Care for the Adirondacks and throw myself at the mercy of the Demangling Maids.

Of course their official title is not Demangling Maids, and I’m afraid I don’t know what it is. Their real names are Sarah and Barbara and when it comes to eyeglass frame chiropractic, they’re both wonder-workers. No matter how bollixed-up my glasses are when I bring them in, they get ’em back up and running and as good as new in a mere flick of the wrist or tweak of the pliers.

But aside from their technical abilities, they have another great skill — this one at least as important as the other. It’s their ability to soothe my frazzled nerves.

Since the only reason I come in is because I made some of gaffe or other, I’m always embarrassed. Maybe not blushing uncontrollably. but embarrassed nonetheless. And after my initial hello, I end up stuttering out an apology. And then, whoever’s stuck with me rises to the occasion and is calming, conciliatory and consoling. Yeah, I know what I’ve done is hardly The Crime of the Century. But it could’ve been avoided if I’d just paid attention to what I was doing. But I didn’t, so once again I feel like a dunce — for the second time in a week or ten days.

You’d think because I keep doing this darn near all the time, I’d just accept it as a fact of life, but the exact opposite is true: My laxness takes on greater proportion each time, and I’ve gone from being merely apologetic to downright confessional.

“Uh, I can’t believe I did it again,” I’ll whine. “I’ve been scrupulous about puttin’ ’em back in the case after I take ’em off, really, but I blew it this time. It was just such a slop-gut thing to do …”

And on and on and on — a virtual Old Man River of self-pity.

At that moment, Barbara or Sarah will spring into action, cutting off my litany of woe and reassuring me that, hey, it happens all the time, is no big deal, they’ll take care of it right away. Then, miraculously, they do, and I leave there with a pair of repaired glasses and a renewed soul.

I know the Catholic church doesn’t allow lay people to hear confessions. But if they ever do, I’ve got two perfect candidates for the job.