Eyes

 

Yesterday at 8 a.m., mine was the lone car (except for staff) in my ophthalmologist’s parking lot. I’d requested this ungodly time since I had an event in the afternoon requiring me to look presentable (i.e. not wearing sunglasses indoors like some kind of faux celebrity) and also be able to read.

          Friends had counselled me ahead of time to request a “one drop” dilation, meaning the bare minimum of medication. The tech gave me some song and dance about differences between practices and still dripped what seemed like half a cup in each eye. And true to medical custom, told me it would sting a bit, which meant it hurt like hell.

          The good news, though, abounded – nothing exciting going on with my eyes, no new prescription needed, everything internal was fine, and I’d be one of the late bloomers when it came to cataracts. Even better, I was out of there faster than a Republican at a town hall meeting.

          In fact, I was out of there so early that I passed parents in driveways, standing with their kids who were waiting to be picked up by the school bus.

          And My Guy had just begun his morning shuffle toward coffee when I got home, and with his iron grasp of my comings and goings, asked, “So, how are your teeth?”