Blinded By the Light

I had to go to the eye doctor last week.

My old one retired and I had been putting it off, but I decided to be an adult and go get a check-up, if only to see if they offered new lenses that could filter out everyone’s Instagram selfies or give me that sexy librarian look.

No and no, by the way.

Anyway, what they tell you:

Bring along the paperwork with your contact information, (lack of) vision insurance data and any family history of glaucoma, cataracts or having their eyes poked out with a sharp stick back in the 50s—or something extensively similar along those lines.

What they don’t tell you:

Everyone who works in the office will wear glasses. I don’t know if they’re unaware that contacts exist or if they only hire people with eye issues as to appear sympathetic to patients, but even the fish in the tank will have little sea spectacles so as to better see the algae they’re gumming.

Unlike other doctor visits, it is not—I repeat NOT—necessary to strip down to your underwear in the exam room while waiting for the doctor to see you. Good to know for next time.

The doctor will attempt—and temporarily succeed—to turn you into a demented X-Men/vampire character.

I wasn’t aware that was part of the deal, but after the exam he tilted my head back, put in two different kinds of drops, gave me a tissue and told me he would be back in 10 minutes once my eyes dilated.

I returned my head to the upright position and had the strange sensation of my eyes leaking — I think sensitive people call this “crying”— and I wiped away artificially-dyed yellow tears.

I sat there waiting with burning and blurring eyes until he came back, jammed a flashlight into my face and declared me in good optical health. In fact, I didn’t even need to get new glasses.

At this point in the darkened room I had no idea I was in the middle of a mutant transformation. He warned me that the light would be bright walking out, and I resisted the urge to ask him if water in the sink would be wet. It seemed like an obvious statement. Light is bright. Thanks for the tip, there buddy!

Until I walked into the wall.

Once the door was opened and I was thrust into the light, I felt like a vampire pulled from my cave. I bounced off the wall like a ping-pong ball as he gently guided my arm to the desk where I paid for the bruise on my head and the yellow tears in my eyes.

I stumbled to the car, quickly slipped on my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust for a bit before driving. And I waited—at least a good two or three minutes—and then took a look at myself in the mirror.

GAH!

Not only was my one coat of mascara washed off, but I had become a creature with yellow corneas, dilated pupils so large only a tiny strip of green iris was left and the vision of Mr. Magoo. Great for Halloween, not so much for doing things like being seen in public or seeing anything in general.

I realized I could see far away but not up close, so I quickly slipped my sunglasses back on (out of necessity) and made my way to the gas station where my lack of clear vision up close resulted in spending an extra $10 just trying to get the pump to end on an even amount.

Once I finally arrived back home and determined it was not in fact a giant rat in my kitchen but the cat—a cat that took one look at my eyes and went running away—I shut all the blinds, slipped on my sunglasses and stumbled onto the couch.

Now I’m not saying I needed Wolverine’s claws—I’m clumsy with a butter knife—but I did kind of want a new power to go with my dilated pupils. Heck, I would have settled for eyelashes that didn’t get stuck in my eye.

Way to do your job and keep crap out of my eye, eyelashes!

But I guess I’ll settle for the return of “normal” eyes, the ability to go out in the sun and a Halloween costume idea–a vegan vampire. 

Works for me.

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