I wish I could buy a pair of eyeglasses without feeling like I’m being swindled.

I mean, I don’t think I’m actually getting cheated (feel free to fill me in on how I’m wrong on that one), but it certainly feels like those new frames are actually just wool being pulled over my eyes. Here are the main issues as I see them.

Price confusion

Setting the actual eye exam part aside, it is very unclear what the final price is going to be for a pair of glasses when I’m looking at them all handsomely displayed on the wall. I am fortunate enough to have some vision coverage through my health insurance, so that helps. It also causes more confusion, however. When I ask about what I might expect as far as coverage, copay, etc., I’m told that the exam will be X (a quite reasonable number), and 45% of the frames will be covered. As for the lenses? Well, the optician will go over that with me.

So, when I do find some frames I like, I can search for the tiny price marked on their tag, and use that to help me in my decision. I try to do it surreptitiously because, well, because who wants to be the guy checking the price on everything? And I’m glad I pay attention because the range can vary by one or two hundred dollars (this is after I told them I’m not looking for anything expensive) and it’s not like they tell me the price of every pair when they hand them to me. I’m also glad at this point that I am myopic, at least I don’t have to squint while trying to be sneaky. This is only a small portion of the cost, though. I have no idea what it will mean when we start discussing lenses.

Product confusion

At least the frame part of the chore is pretty straightforward. I find what I like, what looks good on my face, what the optician says is flattering for me.

But after I’ve made what feels like the major decision, and confirmed that with a shoddy selfie hastily sent off to Melanie, I sit down to discuss lens options. Anti-glare and poly-carbonate. Transition and scratch resistant. Suddenly I’ve stepped into a world of jargon and pressure and I just wish I could be talking to a car salesman right now.

There are visual aids, of course. There’s a box that shows me what a butterfly looks like through the standard anti-glare coating and the good anti-glare coating. And since I don’t especially want to see the world through a haze of soap scum, I choose the good anti-glare. It’s obvious. It’s a butterfly. There’s the handy display that shows me how dark transition lenses will get. The answer is darker than clear. And there are plenty of descriptions and metaphors about lens materials and construction.

But here’s the thing. I can’t experience any of this. I can’t try out options A, B, and C before deciding whether or not I need my glasses to be coated with unicorn tears. I just sit there and look at all the numbers, thinking, “Why is this so much? What happened to the price on the frame?” Maybe the optician is there to help me–this one was perfectly pleasant and answered my questions–but this feels much more like a sales pitch than a medical consultation. Much more like I’m getting advice from a makeup counter at a department store. In the end, I try to minimize costs where I can, balancing the trade off between shatter resistant and light weight and so on.

Performance anxiety

I think the setup is also part of the problem. I’ve already been through this whole process where I have to stare into bright lights and push buttons when I see little flashes in peripheral vision. I’ve been stressing out because I can’t really tell the difference between option one and option two, but clearly there is a difference because she keeps asking me about it and wants a definitive answer about option one or option two and which looks better option one or two or how about three. I’m failing miserably or I’m being gaslighted. Either way, I don’t feel like I’m going to be seeing any better when I get my new glasses.

This is followed by the frames walls. Hundreds of options, typically with minor differences that everyone else seems to be able to notice. We start the conversation with, “What do you like?” Probably I should know. I’ve been wearing glasses for over twenty years. But I still feel the same small panic I get when I sit down to get a haircut, knowing that the person with the scissors is going to expect me to have some kind of input. And I have to do all this while not wearing my prescription lenses, which means I either have to get close to the mirror or pretend that I like or don’t like what I see.

Here’s what I’m saying.

I don’t think it’s a scam. But.

Whether or not they are doing it intentionally, they are sure utilizing a host of behavioral psychology and economics tricks/tactics/surefire ways to get me to make a decision based on emotion rather than logic.

I’ve got decision fatigue for obvious reasons. My willpower reserves are depleted because I’ve spent all this time trying to pretend to enjoy this process, to pretend that this is some kind of treat for me. There’s some halo-effect going on because all the people helping me have lovely glasses that are flattering for them, so surely they are helping me make the best decision. Plus, they gave me water and kept asking if I would like some coffee, so how can I possibly disappoint them?

In the end, I try to remember that I don’t buy glasses very often. This is really an expense spread over two or three or four years, so even though the sticker price hurts, it’s not like I have to do this again next month.

Maybe next time I’ll be a little more prepared. Maybe I’ll remember how I’m supposed to make decisions in this situation. For now, I’ll try to enjoy my glasses when I get them (in two weeks!).

Although, I think I am going to call tomorrow to see if I can remove that extra anti-static, gluten free, organic sugar water coating.