I can’t see without my glasses. But, because I’m both incredibly vain and hopelessly optimistic about a miraculously spontaneous eye-healing, I try every day to see without them anyway.
Not wearing my glasses when I am supposed to…which is every single minute of every single day…sometimes leads to a misunderstanding.
For example, as I shopped for the exciting new brand of tampon I’d seen in an advertisement, I was disappointed when a helpful Wal-Mart associate explained that as far as she knew, there was no such thing as a carbonated feminine hygiene product.
Upon further research and with my spectacles on my eyes this time, I found the word cardboard does indeed have some letters in common with carbonated.
Despite the present unavailability of this effervescent merchandise, I remain convinced that the carbonation of products not routinely prone to bubble and fizz would add much needed excitement to a boring group of manufacturers whose last big development involved adding wings to something that will never fly.
Word to your mother, Madison Avenue.
One place I can never indulge my vanity though is when I am behind the wheel of a car. Not wearing glasses when I drive is no longer an option for me as I have dangerously swerved to miss one too many a phantom moose, gorilla in a matching dress and Easter bonnet, or giant pre-historic pterodactyl.
In addition to the nuisance of having to balance specs on my nose (which has been medically proven to be way too small for my face), the taking them off part is nothing nice either.
Something mysterious happens to my eyes when I’m wearing glasses that causes them to go all crazy immediately upon removing my corrective, yet fashionable, eye wear.
I may be looking right at you from behind the lenses, but the moment I lay them on the table, my eyes start rolling around in their sockets like spinning marbles. I look like a cartoon character that has been bonked in the head so hard my eyeballs were knocked loose.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not get me some of that fancy eye surgery that fixes all vision wrongs, right?
Well according to my eye guy, I am not a candidate for the procedure. But even if I were, there is no amount of valium that could calm me to the point of allowing someone to poke me in the eye.
Even if I were to go south of the border and buy myself some industrial strength, un-tested and wholly illegal mind-numbing drugs, I feel reasonably certain that about the time a doctor were to make a move toward my eye ball with something sharp, I would make a move toward his groin area with something called my knee.
In closing let me say that I sincerely apologize for the use of the words tampon and feminine hygiene here today. While I try to always obey the law of pretending women are magic and babies come from a big bird who sells pickles on the side, sometimes I accidentally let one slip. I don’t have my glasses on right now anyway, so for all I know I wrote about pompons or Grey Poupon or some girl named Tammy.
More than a feeling...
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