This just in: I don’t drink the saline solution that one typically stores contact lenses in.
Nor do I bathe in it, nor swim in it in recreational fashion.
I also refrain from using it to create very hygienic dioramas of ocean life.
Alas, none of this seems to matter to the young woman who gathered my contact lens materials at the eye doctor yesterday. She sent me home with a back packed so full of bottles of contact solution that – had I been sporting red clothes and a white beard – people might have been wondering if Santa Claus had finally lost his bearings and forgotten how to read a calendar. As I stumbled through the door, lugging the bag like a toddler carrying a bowling ball, I realized that a visit to the optometrist’s office is a situation that this blog needs to delve into. Read on… Feel free to cover your right eye while you do so.
The waiting is the hardest part… - Tom Petty, with or without accompanying heartbreakers
If you have ever heard any 1980’s stand-up comedy, you are familiar with the notion that waiting rooms of doctors’ offices tend to feature outdated magazines. The optometrist does not disappoint in the aspect, providing me with a Sports Illustrated from six months ago. While it’s true that I do enjoy reading through back issues of SI (my old bedroom at my parents’ home is littered with them as if they hold clues for surviving the Apocalypse), I don’t necessarily the old woman staring me down from across the way. Via my peripheral vision, I notice that the senior is looking at me as if I have been leading a mole immigration effort that ends in her yard. Uncomfortable. Luckily, her attempts to telepathically cripple my mind end when my name is called.
Ow, my eye! I’m not supposed to get pudding in it! – Lenny Leonard
As a sports fan, many of the tests I’m put through at an annual eye exam seem like drills at the NFL Draft Combine.
“Quickly, cover one eye and read the bottom row.”
“A, R, T, G, S, L, 8”
“Good.” (brings up a different line on chart.) “Now cover the other eye and read the bottom line.”
“O, P, S, D, M, Egyptian hieroglyph that looks like a bird, Pepsi logo, and drawing of an obese hamster.”
“Uhh… good…”
Yes, I am one of those people that will try to guess what a letter on the eye chart is rather than simply admitting that I can’t read it. Weird? Absolutely, since the eye-loving folks are just trying to ensure that my vision is as sharp as possible, but apparently the childhood fear of drawing poor marks in school has transcended to the world of eye exams… At least I’ve never been in the position of having to test said personally quirk in a sobriety test. Slapping oneself in the forehead whilst trying to touch one’s nose and then attempting to convince an officer of the law that you meant to do it probably wouldn’t go over well.
I have many leather-bound books and my home smells of rich mahogany. – Ron Burgandy
Events at the optometrist reach a climax when my actual eye doctor enters the exam room. Doc (name omitted to protect the innocent) has been dealing with my peepers for about 18 years, so it’s fair to say that we have crossed paths a few times. That said, for some reason I’m always surprised when he remembers that I write part-time. After all, judging by the (lack of) frequency of updates to The Writings recently, I have a difficult time remembering that I write part-time. I’m not saying that my writing seems insignificant at times, but… well… my writing seems insignificant at times.
Enough about me, back to the doc. His fingers deftly speed through switches and dials while attempting to correctly prescribe the correct lenses for my eyes, all while carrying an all-too-familiar refrain, “One… or two… or one…. Three … or four…) If it was not for my indecision and lack of trust in my own judgment (“Wait, was six really better than seven? Can we rewind?”) I think the examination would last approximately two minutes and nine seconds. Even the blinding attempts to peer into my eye with a microscope and flash light (personally, I think it would be a lot cooler if they wore miners’ helmets for this) go by in a jiffy. Before I know it, I have a new contact lens prescription (each eye “bumped up a quarter” whatever that might mean… I’m fairly certain that no Washington-adorned currency was actually involved), a free pair of sunglasses (which are slightly more stylish than wrapping my head in tinted film and provide enough pressure that my medulla may shoot out my nose), and a bag packed with so many fluid filled bottles that I’m surprised it didn’t come loaded on an oxen-pulled wagon.
A day at the optometrist is an eventful one, indeed.
Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a lifetime supply of contact solution to attempt to sell on eBay.
Nor do I bathe in it, nor swim in it in recreational fashion.
I also refrain from using it to create very hygienic dioramas of ocean life.
Alas, none of this seems to matter to the young woman who gathered my contact lens materials at the eye doctor yesterday. She sent me home with a back packed so full of bottles of contact solution that – had I been sporting red clothes and a white beard – people might have been wondering if Santa Claus had finally lost his bearings and forgotten how to read a calendar. As I stumbled through the door, lugging the bag like a toddler carrying a bowling ball, I realized that a visit to the optometrist’s office is a situation that this blog needs to delve into. Read on… Feel free to cover your right eye while you do so.
The waiting is the hardest part… - Tom Petty, with or without accompanying heartbreakers
If you have ever heard any 1980’s stand-up comedy, you are familiar with the notion that waiting rooms of doctors’ offices tend to feature outdated magazines. The optometrist does not disappoint in the aspect, providing me with a Sports Illustrated from six months ago. While it’s true that I do enjoy reading through back issues of SI (my old bedroom at my parents’ home is littered with them as if they hold clues for surviving the Apocalypse), I don’t necessarily the old woman staring me down from across the way. Via my peripheral vision, I notice that the senior is looking at me as if I have been leading a mole immigration effort that ends in her yard. Uncomfortable. Luckily, her attempts to telepathically cripple my mind end when my name is called.
Ow, my eye! I’m not supposed to get pudding in it! – Lenny Leonard
As a sports fan, many of the tests I’m put through at an annual eye exam seem like drills at the NFL Draft Combine.
“Quickly, cover one eye and read the bottom row.”
“A, R, T, G, S, L, 8”
“Good.” (brings up a different line on chart.) “Now cover the other eye and read the bottom line.”
“O, P, S, D, M, Egyptian hieroglyph that looks like a bird, Pepsi logo, and drawing of an obese hamster.”
“Uhh… good…”
Yes, I am one of those people that will try to guess what a letter on the eye chart is rather than simply admitting that I can’t read it. Weird? Absolutely, since the eye-loving folks are just trying to ensure that my vision is as sharp as possible, but apparently the childhood fear of drawing poor marks in school has transcended to the world of eye exams… At least I’ve never been in the position of having to test said personally quirk in a sobriety test. Slapping oneself in the forehead whilst trying to touch one’s nose and then attempting to convince an officer of the law that you meant to do it probably wouldn’t go over well.
I have many leather-bound books and my home smells of rich mahogany. – Ron Burgandy
Events at the optometrist reach a climax when my actual eye doctor enters the exam room. Doc (name omitted to protect the innocent) has been dealing with my peepers for about 18 years, so it’s fair to say that we have crossed paths a few times. That said, for some reason I’m always surprised when he remembers that I write part-time. After all, judging by the (lack of) frequency of updates to The Writings recently, I have a difficult time remembering that I write part-time. I’m not saying that my writing seems insignificant at times, but… well… my writing seems insignificant at times.
Enough about me, back to the doc. His fingers deftly speed through switches and dials while attempting to correctly prescribe the correct lenses for my eyes, all while carrying an all-too-familiar refrain, “One… or two… or one…. Three … or four…) If it was not for my indecision and lack of trust in my own judgment (“Wait, was six really better than seven? Can we rewind?”) I think the examination would last approximately two minutes and nine seconds. Even the blinding attempts to peer into my eye with a microscope and flash light (personally, I think it would be a lot cooler if they wore miners’ helmets for this) go by in a jiffy. Before I know it, I have a new contact lens prescription (each eye “bumped up a quarter” whatever that might mean… I’m fairly certain that no Washington-adorned currency was actually involved), a free pair of sunglasses (which are slightly more stylish than wrapping my head in tinted film and provide enough pressure that my medulla may shoot out my nose), and a bag packed with so many fluid filled bottles that I’m surprised it didn’t come loaded on an oxen-pulled wagon.
A day at the optometrist is an eventful one, indeed.
Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a lifetime supply of contact solution to attempt to sell on eBay.
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