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When I backed out of my driveway and flattened not just my mailbox, but also my neighbor's, I knew I had to visit the optometrist.
I like going to the eye doctor. Trouble is, he doesn't like me.
It might have something to do with the fact that one time, I stepped on his foot and left mud on his Italian loafers.
Another time I tipped over an orchid plant in his office. Another time —but you get the point.
To spare his feelings, I tend to put off a visit until I really need it. But the flattened mailboxes stood —I mean, lay there —as proof that the moment had come.
On the day of my appointment with the eye doctor, I rolled into the parking lot and his car. The door to his shop flew open.
"I should've known it was you," the doc sighed. He beckoned me in as if the effort was almost too much for him.
He pointed me toward the eye chart and asked me to read the lowest legible row.
"U… R… A-W-F-U-L," I recited. I squinted at it. "Doc, that seems rather personal."
"I don't design them," he snapped, scrawling something on a piece of paper. "Besides, you got four letters wrong."
We did the pen-light test next. The doc asked me to follow the light as he moved it up, down, and sideways. I assumed it was to test my ocular muscles.
He made me look at the wall to my left, then hold the pose. He left the room. A few minutes later, he came back.
"Is this to test my eye muscles' endurance?" I asked, still staring at the wall.
"No, I just needed a coffee," he said, and scribbled something else on the same sheet of paper.
I felt I owed it to him to make up for the dent in his car. No matter what he asked, I'd go along with it.
The doc inquired if I'd like transition lenses. They look like normal lenses, but when you head out into sunlight, they turn into sunglasses.
When you head back indoors, they're still sunglasses. Then you curse and wait around a bit, and they finally fade back to clear lenses again.
Most people like their transition lenses in a shade of black or brown. But you can see the world in lots of different ways.
The doc offered orange, purple, and red transition lenses. He said he could even put in a special order for green ones.
If I bought those, I could really see the Emerald City. And well enough to not knock down any mailboxes there, too.
I accepted the green transition lenses. And the blue light filter and the bifocals and whatever other customizations he listed.
He marked each addition on the paper. I crossed my fingers and watched my bill rise.
There was a poster in his office that showed which type of frame went well with your facial shape. There were cat-eye glasses and pince-nez and even monocles.
I wondered what would look nice on me. "Aviator goggles," he said. We stared at each other. There was a battle of wills.
That was two years ago. It's long enough for almost anyone to cool off about a dent in their fender.
I hope it's enough for the doc, 'cause I need to swing by for another visit.
If I ding his car this time, I'll blame the aviator goggles.
Alexandra Paskhaver is a software engineer and writer. Both jobs require knowing where to stick semicolons, but she's never quite; figured; it; out.
Previously:
• 12/30/24:Bad music, cheap concerts, and all that jazz
• 12/04/24: No dollars and no sense
• 09/17/24: Gone crackers
• 09/12/24: A matter of manners
• 08/21/24: Keeping things simple --- is hard
• 08/13/24: DIY = 'Destroy It Yourself'
• 06/26/24: All in a day's work
• 05/23/24: The state of the art
• 05/16/24: Rounding one's corners
• 03/22/24: Gone loopy
• 03/05/24: Philosophy rocks