So I did what I hate doing yesterday: I went for my eye exam. I have been with my current employer for several years and have yet to use my vision benefits one single time. I was going to this time last year, and then bedrest took over and it never happened.
I hatehatehate going to the eye doctor.
First of all, have you ever seen that episode of Friends where Rachel goes to get her eyes checked and they do the little air puff thingy? Well if you have seen it and know what I’m talking about, let me just say that that is how I am. Plus up until a couple of years ago, I managed to escape the whole dilate-the-pupils thing. But my father had partial blindness from macular degeneration, and so they no longer allow me to escape that. And those drops seem to affect me more than they say they will. Horrible stuff. Plus, I always seem to get news that is enough to freak me out just a little.
Three Years Ago:
“Hmmmmmm. Interesting.” says the Eye Doc Supreme. (Incidentally, my eye doctor is HOTT.)
“What’s interesting??????” says Yours Truly.
“Well, your one eye is starting to drift inward just a tiny bit. It’s barely noticeable.”
“YOU MEAN I’M GOING FRICKEN CROSS-EYED?!?!?!?!”
“Well, yes and no. You can’t tell unless you measure, but it may start worsening over the years.”
Oh, holy crap. I made the mistake of telling John, who made fun of me for about 6 months after that. He has this odd talent of being able to make just one eye cross. Well, I guess you can’t call it “cross” since it is only one eye, but still…So he would look at me and do that, all while asking, “Can you see me now?” And then cracking himself up. Seriously. Of course his ability to laugh at it, while also a form of torture for me, served to show me that he wasn’t going to run for the hills from his potentially cross-eyed wife.
So yesterday, I go, and it was horrible. They give me whatever test it is that has all of those 3-d rectangles on it, where they ask you which one appears to stand out more. You know the one. So I do number one. And they all look to the same to me. After asking me about 100 times if I’m sure, the tech has me move on to number 2. And they also all look the same. “They all look the same,” I wail at her. Seriously. Am I being Punk’d???? “Oh, Honey,” she says, “do you get into a lot of car accidents???”
WTF. No. I don’t, thank you very much. I am an excellent driver.
Apparently in my ripe ol’ age of 34, I have lost the gift of depth perception. No joke.
I can’t judge distance.
And I am slowly going cross-eyed.
Of course now it all makes sense: how I am constantly on John about getting too close to cars before he brakes. (“OMG Andrea, that’s 500 feet away! Quit bitchin’!”) How I may have accidentally almost knocked myself out on Zach’s entertainer thingy the other day because I honestly didn’t see it as being that close to my forehead while I was on the floor playing with him.
So they dilate my pupils and Dr. Hot Cheeks does my exam. No, he cannot correct the depth perception issue with any type of lens. He says I have probably learned to overcompensate for it, so I’ll be fine and am not going to kill anyone. My nearsightedness got worse, as did my astigmatism. I take my little prescription for my new glasses to LensCrafters, which is awful, because this is when the dilated-pupils thing really starts to bother me. And LensCrafters is all brightly lit, and has white shelfs and displays, which just glares.
And they want me to pick out glasses that will be a permanent fixture on my face for at least the next year. Why in the hell do they do that?
Once again this year, John picked out my glasses. At least he has decent taste, I think. The pic above are the ones he picked for me: DKNY frames. Kind of a sort of bronze color. A few years ago, he picked the Versace ones I had for the same reason. He knows his Andrea.
So I am wearing the new specs. And for now, everything is nice and crisp until about this time next year when the edges will start to blur and my lenses will take even more cosmetic treatment and space-age material to keep me from looking like Poindexter. Who knows what the news will be next year. Can eyeballs spontaneously combust???
Next week: the dentist. Dun-dun-dunnnnnnnnnh.