I didn’t get dealt the best hand in balance or general grace, but, my friends, I’m the first to say that I made out pretty well in the health category. And before you go all “you never know how important your health is until you don’t have it” on me, let me tell you that I count my lucky stars for it on the regular. I eat my peanut butter cup/apple a day and keep my fingers crossed and feel super grateful. Except for one, teeny, tiny, kind of super important thing. My eyes.
My eyes are like those insidious middle schoolers who are either so perpetually lazy or unimpressed that they end up in alternative school, walking around in small groups with a mean teacher and smoking cigarettes in the bathroom and not giving a shit about any of it. They’ve been giving me the middle finger for as long as I remember, and now it’s starting to get on my nerves. I’m considering military school for them. Or sending them to live with their father.
It’s just that they…well…don’t work very well. I started wearing glasses at the ripe old age of six, which I’m sure seems cute in the movies but in real life is a lot less fun, especially with the whole “keeping them on your face and not on the ground/your chair/somewhere where they can get stepped on, sat on, or kicked around” thing. (What can I say, I’m that kid who always broke her glasses and lost her retainer. At the Cracker Barrel. True story.) The constant breaking plus my annoyance at wearing them during basketball games inevitably led to contacts, which worked out surprisingly well in grade school but much less so in high school/college when, after consuming my weight in [insert light beer here] (hellooo bottomless red cup), things like “waiting two minutes to not burn my mouth on pizza” and “taking out my contacts” didn’t seem so important. See: heinous eye infections, followed by their close friend astigmatism.
I eventually realized that not taking care of my eyes meant poor vision and punishment from my eye doctor in the form of having to wear my titanic-thick glasses—in public, no less—and started being meticulous about my eye care. It worked out for a few years until they spontaneously decided that, you know what, being healthy wasn’t so cool anymore and it was much more fun to revolt against the machine (aka my body), meticulous care be damned. My eyes broke up with their convenient—and, I’ll admit it—somewhat vain boyfriend contacts, and six eye doctors, two years and eight different contact trial pairs later they still hadn’t reconciled. So I upped the ante.
Next up: part II. Because my eyes are long-winded that way.