Is it possible to commit optical adultery?

I have been faithful to the same optometrist for 35 years.  At age 10 I was, I believe, one of his very first patients. Through college, and moves, and marriage, and kids, I have been a steadfast customer and sustainer of his lavish lifestyle.

You see, my eyes do this weird thing.  It’s called not working.  When I was in high school, I was told that my vision was, not 20/20, but 20/2000.  That means that something a normal person can read at 2000ft cannot be read by yours truly until I reach a distance of 20 feet.

Let’s try to get a visual on that—pun intended.  You have normal vision, and you find yourself standing at one end of a hallway that stretches for just shy of seven football fields.  Yes, that’s a very long hallway and no, I don’t know who would build such a hallway or why or where.  Just…stay with me for a moment.  At the end of this unnaturally long hallway is a sign, with letters that are just big enough for you to read.  I don’t know what the sign says; that’s really not pertinent to my illustration.  Just for kicks, we’ll say the sign reads, “Hooray for flying monkeys!”

You can read this sign, signal your approval, disdain, or ambivalence with regard to flying monkeys, and go about your business.  Now it is my turn.  I enter the hallway, sans contact lenses or glasses.  I look down toward the other end, and see…bupkis.  It’s not that the letters are fuzzy; it’s that I see no letters, or sign, or even the end of the hallway.  It’s like staring off into a misty eternity.  Now we understand why this imaginary experiment is being conducted in an imaginary hallway, and not on an imaginary open field.  You see—pun, again, intended—without walls to bump into, I would just wander off into that imaginary field and be lost forever.

You point me in the right direction, and I start wandering down this hallway, bumping into the walls from time to time, until I am finally able to read the sign.  I am standing, huffing and puffing from the hike, just in front of the seven yard line.  Seven football fields, and I have to get to the seven yard line before I can read about the flying monkeys.

Now you understand—avoided the pun that time—why my optometrist has been so important to me over the years.  He has kept me from wandering blindly through the streets.  He has kept my eyes healthy.  In my pre-contact lens days he even kept me looking suave and debonair in custom specs.

Thirty-five years.  But now my doctor is in semi-retirement, and his office is about a 90 minute drive from my home.  My current schedule makes it nearly impossible to get out there to see him.  So, we’re going to a local guy.  He’s nice, and he seems to know what he’s doing, but I don’t know.  I feel disloyal somehow, like I’m committing optidultery.  I confess, I haven’t even told my regular doc.  What if this new guy doesn’t work out, and I’ve already penned a “Dear Doc” letter? So, I’m keeping my options open.  I’ll hold off on any official notifications until next year.  Who knows—maybe my old doctor will fully retire. Then he’ll have to feel guilty for dumping me.

Question of the day:  What is the longest business relationship you have had?  To what lengths would you go to keep it?