I hate eye exams.
Way worse than any other medical appointment.
And as a woman, that’s saying a lot.
It’s the pressure to perform, you know?
At least at my annual. I can just lay there. And only be physically uncomfortable.
I can handle physical discomfort. Mostly. At least up to 45 miles.
But it’s the mental discomfort I struggle with.
When they start flipping lenses and shit. Asking which is better? One or two? Now two or three?
There’s so much pressure to get the answers right.
But then they all start looking the same.
But Judith over here is still flipping shit.
So my brain figures there must be a difference between three and four, right? Otherwise why would she still be asking me?
But I can’t see any difference.
So Judith must just be fucking with me.
And I start getting this tone in my voice. Like a kind of sad begging tone. To please stop asking me. Until I finally say, I don’t know! They all look the same now.
Which. I know. Rationally. Is the point of the exercise. I get that.
But also I don’t.
Because what if they’re not the same.
What if they’re wildly different. And my brain just can’t process the differences anymore.
But if I don’t get the answers right. It’s going to fuck up my whole prescription.
Or worse. Make me look stupid. And incompetent.
And I don’t want to do this anymore, Judith. I stopped seeing a difference 8 lenses ago! Please stop asking me!!!
Meanwhile, Curtis has already asked me to sit down. And stand up. And move over here. And sit back down. And stand back up. And follow him back here.
And fuck, Curtis! Do you not see the pure force of will it takes for me to stand up? Why are you walking so fucking fast, Curtis?? And yes I have to walk close to the wall so I can use my arms to support myself down the hall. Because my left leg sure as fuck ain’t supporting shit.
And now Judith wants to commiserate about how much she’s looking forward to her kids’ spring break. Because it’s so hard. With all the homework. And tests. She’s exhausted.
And now I want to stab you a little bit, Judith.
And stop telling me that every pair of glasses I try on “look great,” Jennifer!
I didn’t even shower this morning, Jennifer.
Nothing looks great on me right now, Jennifer.
Just give me the cheapest pair you have. And please, for the love of God, stop telling me to have a seat.
Let me just lean on this wall until you’ve completed all your damn paperwork.
And then someone please drive me home. Because I’m not dead sure I can manage the drive back.
I may need a little more recovery time. It’s possible that the mix of hormones and post-ultra DNF left hip pain is just a really ugly look on me.
But at least Jennifer thinks I look great.