Growing up, my classmates often commented that I was a great friend and a gifted canoer, but they never knew which eye to engage.
To say I had a lazy eye didn’t really cover it, since I actually used both eyes–just not at the same time. Mid-sentence, the eye you were addressing could dart to the wall while the other one went on active duty. People would casually scan the bridge of my nose to the eye now peering at them, which is the only way I knew of the shift myself.
In another time, I might’ve been knighted for my superior peripheral vision—the lone sentinel who could take in half the world without even moving his head. But in the modern age, with our skies teeming with spy satellites, this gift is no longer celebrated. In fact, my nickname amongst my less-informed classmates was “Cyclops.”