It was a perfect autumn day. Not too cool. Jacket weather. Just right…for another doctor’s appointment! It seems all my annual check-ups fall in the autumn. I really don’t like being my own care-taker, but I’m just trying to put things in order. This is a colossal task, one that demands patience and fortitude that I didn’t know I had.
I confess I rather dread these excursions into the various clinics, overflowing with lab coats and congenial office personnel. Grinning nurses always trigger paroxysms of anguish, and I begin breathing head-lightening quantities of CO2.
What peculiar rituals. The techs drain my infinitesimally private bodily secretions into trickling pools of humiliation to examine under a cold, unforgiving, soulless microscope. And then they return with test results, diplomatically explaining that my shiny vitreous crystals, my lavishly polluted flaky biotate mica, and a dazzlingly confused biological geology confirm what they have long suspected…I’m eroding away to detritus.
So last week when I went for my eye exam, I hid my dread behind my best game expression, assuming a detached strata of consciousness. I did not want the doctor to enter the room and be confronted by a woman with eyes like a startled beast.
(I have reached that point in life when you consider it the supreme triumph to fog a mirror and have a full set of limbs.)
Well, the doctor went about placing drops in my eyes to dilate them, so he could beam his arc light into my pupils and cause aggravated brain freeze. And then he got right into my face and asked me to read teeny weeny passages in a darkened room that became incrementally tinified, and I developed a migraine. Finally, in a merciful act of benevolence, he concluded his scrutiny of my eyeballs and delivered his verdict.
With enthusiastic vigor and fevered delirium, he announced I had the best cataracts on the planet.
Whattttt??? I have catarAAAACCCCKS???? I shrieked, losing every shred of my mysterious serenity.
He said yes, explaining that the forward rush of life can be hostile, one of the perils of this hostility being cataracts. However, my cataracts are so minimal, they were not even worth mentioning. He explained that everybody “of a certain age,” has cataracts. It’s normal. I think that’s optometrist-speak for, “You’re old.” But he just has never seen such preposterously undiscernible cataracts as mine. Apparently my eyes have gone from 20/25 to 20/20.
Well, I finally caught the vision, so to speak. I was as happy as the day I found out caffeine is a natural pesticide. I became giddy. And I left that exam room warbling, “I Can See Clearly Now,” “My Eyes Are Watching You,” “She’s Got Betty Davis Eyes,” “On A Clear Day You Can See Forever.”
Furthermore, the good doctor said I have excellent eyeballs. So I’ve decided to flaunt them with studied ostentation and pomposity. We all have our physical attributes. But when you have a figure like the number 11, you take your curves where you can get them!
I am reluctant to toot my own vuvuzela, but I plan to expose my visual prowess by reading the side effects on every prescription bottle in the pharmacy, with one eye tied behind my back. I will peruse the telephone book as recreation, take up crocheting, and spend my leisure time threading needles with spider silk. I will guzzle lutein, and swill shakes of liquefied spinach and carrot juice from a straw. I will look at every vista and adopt a confident gaze with eyes of chipped granite.
Hey, it’s not a sin to over-indulge in things that are good.
IN YO FACE, HEIDI KLUM!