This week I made a decision. Well actually I couldn’t make a decision which leads me to this story. I went to get new glasses and I asked if I wanted contacts or glasses. I hesitated and before I knew it I said “both” which sounds about right for me.
Bacon or sausage? Fries or onion rings? Pink or blue?
I always want both. ALWAYS.
This time though it was going to cost me. Financially, mentally and physically.
My original appointment went something like this:
Cover your right eye, what line can you read?
HUH? lines? what lines?
Cover your left eye, what line can you read now?
UH. just write a big letter on poster board, ok? we both know I can’t see these lines.
So clearly I needed to do something more permanent than wearing glasses sometimes. The time has come.
I asked about how long the follow -up appointment might last as I had to be to work that morning. “45 minutes, usually, depending on how quickly you can learn to put in / take out your new contacts”
Not so bad, right?
This was going to be easy. Little did I know.
I have never worn contacts. I barely wear my glasses, not because I don’t need them but because they are always dirty or I can’t find them. I am a walking disaster.
I arrived to my appointment and sat down to be presented with my new contacts, a mirror and an instructor across from me to teach me the basics. I tried to get the first contact out of the mini liquid bath without success. Never have I ever felt more like a lumbering giant then when I was trying to fish a teeny little floppy bowl out of a mini container with my giant finger.
Lets say it took awhile.
So then I have it. Perched on my finger tip, aimed at my now pried open eyeball. There was no looking back. I aimed straight for my right eye and blinked just before the contact could secure to the destination point.
I didn’t know this at the time. I had no idea. I smiled. I was excited. I looked up at the tech waiting for praise. Look at me! I thought I had it.
I looked in the mirror and it had folded in half and was stuck to my eyelashes. Like a clump of glue on Pre-K macaroni art. Right there on my freaking lashes.
So I tried again.
I rinsed the flakes of mascara off, and again pointed the saucer at my eye. After what was probably a dozen failed tries, 1 torn contact and a battered, red eye the unthinkable happened.
That contact popped out and bounced off my face like a dodge ball off fat kids head.
Where that little sucker landed was a mystery for a very uncomfortable few minutes.
I was searching everywhere. One eye half closed and watering like I had been in a freak accident and one eye bloodshot and battered but with the contact in place. I looked in my lap, nothing. I checked in the folds of my cardigan, natta. Peaked super classy like in the cleavage of my cami tank. No contact there either.
One of the techs got on all fours while I flailed about like the losing figher in an MMA match, one contact in and faced contorted with embarrassment. I wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate to laugh or to cry. I did neither. I rinsed that rogue lense super well and with determination stuck it in, wiggled it around and called it done.
I was so proud.
I was also terrified.
The tech said I had to take them out now. At this point I gave up on trying to be lady like. I had had enough torture. If this was a survival plot to save my life surely I would be dead by now.
Taking them out was easy. I did it. I put them in their little case and tightened the caps.
Because I am a coward the next thing I did was the only thing I could.
I put my glasses on and left with my head held low.