“Wow, these are old,”
my optometrist said, peering skeptically at the box of contacts I had brought
in for my contact lens fitting. “We can
definitely get you a way better fit than these.”
It’s a pleasant fact of my current existence that I have,
quite inadvertently, surrounded myself with dreamboat men to help me get
through the mundane trivialities of adult life.
After more than a decade of suffering through a painfully awkward teenage experience
and a bumbling early young adulthood, I can somehow now banter easily with men
who even a few years ago I’d have been too shy to speak to at all. My massage therapist is one; my eye doctor
is another. The feeling I get when I inevitably deliver some deadpan one-liner that
leaves them helpless with laughter is immensely gratifying, let me tell
you. It’s like a sigh of relief after
years of holding my breath.
My optometrist is a strapping young man who hails from the
same area as my hometown in Pennsylvania.
At my first appointment a few months ago, right after he walked in and
shook my hand, I declared, “So bad news: I think I scared your assistant
because I’m practically blind.” He took
to me immediately.
“I’m surprised they would even refill this prescription for
you after so long,” he mused, shaking his head as he stared in disbelief at the
contacts I used. “I guess because you’re,
uh…nice…they figured it was okay. I
definitely wouldn’t have refilled a prescription after four years!”
I tried to look innocent.
“Uh, yeah, about that, so…I really hate the air puff test, so, uh...I just used the same
prescription. It reminds me of dodge-ball
in elementary school.”
He chuckled as he updated my file in a tablet-like device
that made me feel like we were in Sick Bay on the star ship Enterprise. “Well, these will be a huge improvement. They’re much more breathable and
comfortable.”
After a few more questions and mournful wails from me when he
said my eyes are probably too bad to undergo Lasik, he walked me out to
the receptionist where I proceeded to spend half a month’s rent on the exam fee
and a year’s supply of these new lenses he recommended. The chipper girl at the desk put in an order
for them to be delivered to my house.
Presumably, for the first time in four years, I’d be able to see more
clearly.
Seven business days later, they arrived at my house, and
this morning, I pulled back the little foil lid that always makes you feel like
you’re opening a tiny present and shoved them into my eyes excitedly.
I’ve been walking around in them all day, and honestly,
unless I think about it, I can’t really tell much difference so far. I haven’t noticed my eyes getting dry as much
as usual, even though I was at work a whole hour later than normal today. And, if I really stop to focus, I can tell my
vision is sharper – but it all kind of blends together, really.
Maybe that’s what seeing
more clearly is all about – it’s minute, gradual, and not really
earth-shattering when it finally happens.
Just one day, you wake up and put on slightly better lenses.
But that tiny little improvement, well, it makes all the
difference.
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