Seeing Things My Way

I had an eye exam this week. Whoohoo! I know, you're saying, "Seriously? I'm going to read a blogpost about 'Which is better? 1. or 2? 1. or 2?'" But there is nothing like an eye exam to make you realize your limitations. You can't say, "Well, the weather's been awful, I haven't been able to jog my 40 miles a day," like you do when the physician rolls his eyes over the extra sixteen pounds. You can't commit to more frequent flossing, or taking vitamins. It is what it is. Your eyes will betray whatever delusions of youth you have managed to entertain in your senior mind. I used to think, "What kind of person can't read that HUGE! E at the top of the eye chart?!" Yeah, I used to think that.

Seriously, I think I would rather have rhinoplasty, or a colonoscopy. Maybe both. It's just you and the optometrist. You're locked in this little room. She's firing questions at you like the KGB. Does anyone feel the same kind of pressure I do? You're sitting in that big electric chair-looking thing. What if you get one wrong?! "Next round: Sudden Death!" Do they waterboard you in that room down the hall? That door is ALWAYS shut. I've begun to feel as though every second or third option is the same lens she's already shown me; she's just messing with me. Maybe she's trying to see if I'm telling the truth, or if I'm cheating somehow. They don't call this an exam for nothing, you know. A neurotic overachiever like me could have a full blown panic attack in a situation like that!

And, after what seems like hours into the exam, after the fifth or sixth "Well, how about this one?" When you hear that sigh, and her tone begins to change... "Look, Mr. Magoo, time is money. If you don't hurry up, I'm gonna set you up with a pair of Coke bottles that will make Morocco Mole feel bad for you!" And I begin to crack under the pressure. And I think I taste my own blood in my throat. And I just blurt out, "THAT ONE! Yes! That one." It is then I realize the best is yet to come...

I have to pay for this.