Birders form a very special bond with their binoculars. Those who don't know any better would call it a psychosis, but for anyone who has spend a lot of time peering through the same lenses in search of dreamed-of life birds understands what I mean. The binos we use to take our life list from 0 to 400 are closer to us than most of our friends; when they take us from 400 to 700+, our spouses make us begin marriage counseling.
Nevertheless, every time we flip through the newest birding magazines, the ads from Leica and Swarovski start us thinking adulterous thoughts of disloyalty, of abandoning our loyal optical partner for some salacious German vixen. Our hearts beat faster, our faces flush, our eyes wander lovingly over the curves on the barrels, the ergonomic teasings of the rubber molding. The spec list makes our knees tremble with such seductive phrases as "nitrogen-filled," "hydrophobic coating," and (most effervescent of all) "interpupillary distance." Before too long we have given ourselves heart and soul to the fantasy of standing one day in some tropical rain forest with our very own sexy Ultravids lovingly caressing us around the neck, as the local avians serenade with their exotic sonatas.
But we eventually sigh our "If only" and turn the page, but not without a guilty glance at our old stand-by sitting attentively on the shelf next to us.
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