Presbyopium

I thought I might as well do it. Now, before it becomes too late, and I begin to teeter-totter and have trouble spelling Alzheimer. So there, that’s my contribution to the English language. Whether it’ll make it to the Oxford dictionary or will simply be relegated to another book on sniglets, it’s too early to say, but I’m hoping that the word will get at least some of the necessary Press it so deserves.

In case you’re wondering what it really means, Presbyopium describes the condition where spouses of members of the Press get to unfairly enjoy the perks meant, in effect only, for their spouses. For the more literally inclined, its etymology can be traced to Press (as in 'printing', and also an euphemism for Power), Opium (the heady, often unreal feeling induced by power, including 'Press' power), and has as its inspiration, Presbyopia, the condition where the eye exhibits a progressively diminished ability to focus on near and obvious objects with age.

Presbyopium begins with the occasional accompaniment to a fashion show, graduates to dinners at fancy restaurants, and ultimately descends to an unending spiral of free holidays at exotic locations. Without realizing it and for no real fault of theirs other than being married to the right person in the wrong job, Presbyopiates get so used to a lifestyle of decadence, they often have trouble focusing on real life as it passes by at close quarters. It is strongly rumoured that in their next lives, they usually get reborn as flies and mosquitoes who get swatted repeatedly with folded newspapers and magazines, and it normally takes them at least seven and a half births to set their sins right.

Almost all Presbyopiates go through distinct life-stages, following an alarmingly screenplay-type narrative, except that it unfolds in reverse, and in the end, it’s always the ever-powerful Press that wins. At first, our unlikely hero, completely unaware of the greatness destined to be thrust upon him, denies any rights towards perks being offered through status of spouse. ‘Just because the invite says admit 2 doesn’t entitle me to sit in the front row and watch that fashion show’, or ‘You have to eat at that restaurant because you have to write about it, but that doesn’t mean I should have a free lunch too’, or ‘Really, I’m not entitled to spend a weekend at that resort just because I happen to be your husband’ are often heard arguments, which are struck down skillfully, as you guessed it, by the Mighty Pen of the Press. This is followed by a stage of deepening conflict as our hero fights with his mind, conscience and spouse, to little avail. Sadly the resolution stage looms where, to avoid further marital discord, he meekly surrenders and gains martyrdom, blooming into a full-blown Presbyopiate. By which time, as it’s time to drop the curtain, our hero has fully surrendered, and the battle has been thumpingly won by the Press!

To be fair, a few cases of rebellion have been reported, and even a few escapes have been engineered by enterprising Presbyopiates wishing to write their own script, but at the time of going to Press, none have been known to’ve succeeded. Sure, some Press feathers have been ruffled by ugly domestic spats particularly on evenings where free invites have been plentiful, but since these have occurred safely between four walls in most instances, such cases have rarely been reported or have come to light. Suffice it to presume, that the Press has been all-powerful, even in the most democratic of setups, primarily because it has what it sees as the reasoning that always trumps: ‘Since I am Press and you are spouse, whatever I have ‘earned’ is yours to enjoy, by law and implication’ – Q.E.D.

Not that it’s all tragic, of course. There are some lighter moments in the story: when a Presbyopiate is sometimes confused with the Press, by lesser mortals, for instance. The smile accompanying ‘Which magazine will you be writing for, sir?’ quickly turns to a frozen face with an ‘Oh!’ when told that it is the wife who will actually do the writing, is an oft-encountered situation. But among the most hilarious has to be when one was addressed as ‘Mr Meenu’, as a derivative husband of ‘Ms Meenu’, a practice in complete deference to the supremacy of the Press!

Comedy aside, Presbyopiates soon come to accept their situation, some rather more good-naturedly than others, and this is evident in most of the talk that passes between them and other Presbyopiates who expectedly flock together at many Press Dos. So, a question such as ‘Hello, Mr Meenu, how are the kids – haven’t seen them lately – don’t get them to parties anymore, eh?’ would probably be greeted with a mumble of ‘Oh hi. Er, they, had a friend over…’ (when, of course in reality one wouldn’t want to corrupt them just yet) have been overheard.

Coming to terms with one’s social situation is one thing, but facing those demons in the head, where one principle too many are often stuck, is one helluva fight, and is bound to have side effects in the long run, such as loss of balance, appetite, or worse, hair.

Some day, when this species is studied a bit more, mankind will gather sufficient knowledge to understand and appreciate its peculiar situation. Perhaps some enterprising scholars will take on the mighty Press and question some of its best practices, thereby giving Presbyopiates a hope before early extinction. But till then, we will look forward to another perplexing question: do most Presbyopiates bald sooner than the average human?