I can’t believe it’s taken me nigh on 400 posts to punch in the face something that’s been staring me in the face, clear as day. It’s high time, friends, to shine a light on overhead lighting.
You might think that, as a woman of a certain age, I might eschew bright overhead light because it’s harsh on the skin, makes me look haggard, and accentuates every line and crease.
Well, duh. I’m as vain as the next woman. But there’s more, so much more that I loathe about light from above.
I hate a Patty-Hearst-swinging-in-a-closet bare bulb. I avert my eyes at grandiose chandeliers. Fluorescent lights makes me angry with the white hot heat of the sun. I don’t want to be interrogated; I just want to read a book.
Overhead lighting hurts my eyes and it hurts my sensibility. Granted, it’s workmanlike, but it’s far from sexy, welcoming, happy, or even all that effective. The ophthalmologist turns down the light when I’m reading an eye chart. When people use light therapy for their Seasonal Affective Disorder, it’s probably not pulsing down from the ceiling, as much as they might want to replicate natural sunlight. That might only exacerbate their inner gloom. I think postal workers flip out, not because of the stress, but because of the hideous lighting casting a pall over those big sorting facilities.
Flip off the light fixture and turn on a 60w desk lamp. Overhead lighting should only come from the sun and street lamps.