3-2-1, contact (lenses)

Got my first pair of contact lenses the other day. This represents Phase III of my long-term life plan, which I call “Get Old & Die.” Phase I took place about five years ago, when I broke down and purchased my first pair of bifocals. A nightly walk instead of jogging represented Phase II. The rest of the plan shapes up like this:
Phase IV: Hair turns gray;
Phase V: Hair falls out; and
Phase VI: I die.
Understandably, I’m trying to hang onto my hair as long as possible, in order to forestall that final Phase.
At any rate, I’m now wearing contacts; ONE contact, to be precise, in my right eye. My left’s going AU NATUREL. The theory is, I’ll read with the right eye and check out coeds jogging past the office window with the left.
I was a little apprehensive about the idea of using only one contact, but it turns out it DOES work! I can read! Without glasses! Better still, I can see the coeds jogging past. (Thank you, girls of the FSU cross country teams.)
There have been some drawbacks, however. If you’ve never worn contacts, you may not fully appreciate the sacrifices involved. The first is, putting the lens in.
The nice lady at (free plug alert!) Optometric Associates helped me with my first try. Well, she didn’t actually HELP me, but she did patiently talk me through it.
It was strange, touching the one part of my body I’ve always been told NOT to touch. (Actually, one of TWO parts: The nuns at St. Isadore’s Catholic School warned me against touching the other.)
But eventually, I got used to the idea of intentionally poking my eye with my forefinger. In truth, it wasn’t as bad as I suspected it would be.
Taking the lens back OUT, on the other hand … THAT, I am sure, is one of the recreational activities offered in Dante’s seventh circle of Hell.
In an effort to remove the lens, and under the gentle guidance of the eye doctor’s assistant, I dug, I groped, I yanked, I augured, I pinched, I pulled … I did everything but go in there with blasting powder and a chainsaw.
And still the lens remained firmly attached to my eye, like a barnacle sucking the hull of an oil tanker.
Eventually – after what seemed hours (but was in truth, probably less than five minutes) – the lens did pop out. By this time, my eyeball bore a strong resemblance to the setting sun, but I didn’t care; the lens (can I get a hallelujah!) was OUT.
“OK, that’s good,” the nice lady said. “Let’s put it in again.”
I could have cried; was crying, in fact. But I did as she instructed. Then I took the lens out again. Then put it back in, popped it out, in, out, in, out … you get the idea.
By the time I left the optometrist’s office, I was a contact lens insertion and removal MACHINE!
So, THAT, at least, is no longer a problem.
The other downside to being able to see so well is … being able to see so well. Things once fuzzy and vague now leap out at me with crystal clarity. No longer do I see the world through an impressionistic gauze of soft colors and shapes. Everything is so … REAL. I see things TOO clearly, and that’s not always a good thing.
For instance, it turns out I’m fat. Who knew? I always assumed I was just – as my mother used to say – “big boned.” That may be true, but those bones are definitely covered in a formidable layer of blubber.
Also, I’m NOT married to Heather Graham. The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, it would seem, is a DIFFERENT blond woman altogether! Not whom I thought at all. She’s still way too cute for me, so I’m not complaining, but you can imagine my shock at seeing her, as it were, for the first time.
Other things I’ve noticed with the help of my new contact lens: my car is an old pickup truck, NOT a Ferrari (gonna have to have a talk with the dealership about THAT one); I DO NOT live at the White House in Washington, D.C., but rather in A white house in Lakeview; I have ear hair; nose hair; and I am, possibly, LOSING some hair on my head.
So, all in all, the contact lens MIGHT be a good thing. Then again, it might not.
I’ll let you know next time some coeds jog by out front.