20/25

 If I’da only had that when I was younger.

 So I went for my first eye exam today. I was definitely apprehensive and tried to conjour up a decent excuse with which to cancel. Like I did the last time. But no, off I went, dilation inevitable, carrying the encouragement of those close to me on my back. (Lu, Yadge and Dork-o, thanks)

 Geez, you’d think I was undergoing some major surgery, eh? I’m a wuss. Simply put. Especially when it comes to my eyes.

 The Doctor QT asks me a series of questions. Some, I thought, rather irrelevant. “I see here that you’re…uh…adopted. That’s ok, no problem.” I think he was more uncomfortable with saying it like that than I have EVER been for being it, despite the fact that having NO family history truly does complicate things like this at times… …Are brown eyes dominant? Or blue eyes? What color does my mother have, I wonder…”Wake up, Theresa! Do you have any hobbies?” Um…sure. You want me to name ’em? “Do you participate in any outdoor activities?” “Does walkin’ up the block to the market for smokes count?” Eliciting a laugh was worth the 10 dollar co-pay.

 When it came time for Dr. QT to put the drops in? Comical. Legs ready to bolt, arms up in defensive mode. I HATE that shit. My dentist, (a funny guy in his own right-Dr. Beaver, no joke) and this guy can surely chuckle together over a glass of chardonnay about the 41 year old dumb ass woman who acts like a child when it comes time to, “lean back and relax.” These guys definitely earn their pay. I don’t do well in offensive postures. Perhaps I have been enslaved and apprehended and subdued through force in numerous lifetimes? Perhaps.

 Anyway, it was like an eyeball obstacle course. Sit in the Darth Vader chair, get drops. Chin in-forehead against. Lights, cameras, action. Move on to round two. More drops. Dilation. Get put in a room for ten minutes for the drops to take affect. I’m thinking this ain’t so bad until I hafta walk to room three. I can’t even read the signs on the wall! Chin on-forehead again. Measuring my eyeballs. I tell her that I’m pretty sure they’re round. “Not necessarily,” says she…

 Then on to the refractor? machine. Look at the pretty balloon in the middle. Then some freakish red carnival-esque spiral lights. Girl- Doc says I’m a trooper. I bow my chest out a bit. Just a bit. Don’t wanna seem too proud, I hardly KNOW these people.

 Back to room one to Dr. QT. Blue light, bright light. Damn, the light sucks. Read this line. Well…e f r s g? no, maybe o.

  I ask him my numbers first off. He laughs. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “Your vision is 20/25” (Crap! I knew I shoulda studied harder!). “We’re not going to fix what isn’t broken. But next year you might find that a prescription will assist with reading the fine print.”

 But, Doc! Aren’t I doing pretty good for a 41 year old? He says, “You’re about where we’d expect you to be.” AVERAGE? WTF? I loathe that word or implication.

 I ask about my floatie things. He says they’re normal. My eyes are great. Blood vessels are perfect, size and shape good. He asks if I ever have dry eyes. I laugh. I say, “Doc, when that happens, I simply watch a Publix commercial.” Big pause. Excruciating silence. Then he gets it. “Yeah, I like the Valentine one with the little boy,” he tells me. “I don’t see any dry areas or redness in your eyes, keep up with the Publix commercials.” If he only knew that soooo many things keep my eyes lubricated these days…

  I ask about one of the issues…my light sensitivity.  Shouldn’t I be LESS sensitive to light since I have brown eyes?

 “Yes, you are. But only in the front of your eyes. The pigmentation in the back of your eyes is less.” “You can see that?”, I ask. He says, “Yup.” He says to think of it as being “blonde” in the back and “brunette” in the front. I smile. Right on, dude. Love me some blondes, yo. {Big sly grin}

  I get these cool Darth Vader glasses to-go and I’m on my way. ” See y’all in a year, ” I say. ” Bye Theresa, ” they say. God, I gotta fix that whole name thing…

 I can’t see shit, my eyes look like those you’d see on an episode of COPS.

  Lu says, ” Just stay in your apartment, Deedle.” I say…you don’t ever need to give me THAT 20/25 advice twice!

 Peace out, y’all. SEE you later.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 19th, 2008 at 12:17 pm and is filed under Deetails, Whining 101. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.