I always have issues with my contacts.  This should come as no surprise to those of you that either (1) read this blog or (2) have personally met me.

Come to think of it, I usually have issues with most things in my life, which is why this blog practically writes itself.   (If only this blog could respond to my emails and do my laundry…)

The time recently came for me to go to the eye doctor for my yearly exam. Believe me, I wasn’t keeping track of that in my planner.  (Who am I kidding?  I don’t have a planner.)  Nope.

I made the appointment for the eye doctor not so much because I’m diligent about my eye care, but because I was running out of contacts.  With the way they had been shredding in my eyes (and with the way I had swallowed a few of them), they were a precious resource and I knew I needed to stock up.

I made my appointment for Friday afternoon.  I figured if I was going to torture myself and allow someone to blow air in my eyeballs, I might as well do it on a Friday, when I knew a happy hour would follow.  (Yeah, like Friday is the only day I go to happy hour.  But for purposes of this story, play along.)

The doctor was different than my regular eye doctor and this guy had the personality of my left tit.  (In case you don’t know, my left tit isn’t particularly funny…or friendly.)  He (the doctor, not my left tit) put drops in my eyes and told me it wouldn’t hurt at all.  Um, isn’t that what Michael Jackson used to say to the kids in Neverland?  (Too soon?)

After he put the drops in my eyes I asked him if they were dialating drops.  He responded that they were.  What?!  I had a happy hour to go to.  How was I supposed to go anywhere with dilated eyes?  I was going to get pulled over for drinking and driving for sure with my pupils the size of grapefruits and there was no way a boob flash would get me out of a ticket this time.

He completed the exam and sent me out to the waiting room…or at least I think that’s where I went, as I couldn’t see anything.  Before I saw the doctor I told the assistants that I wanted a new pair of glasses.  I’ve had the same glasses for three years and figured it was time for a change.

So when I was shuffled back to the waiting area, I was immediately pounced on by two employees who undoubtedly made their money on commission. (Or at least I hope so.  If not, one of them was just really into me.)

Because I couldn’t see anything, I asked the assistants to pick out some glasses for me to try on and I would trust their judgement.  They walked around and picked out different frames as I sat there and hoped they were pulling frames from the female side of the wall.

They came back with several pairs and put each one on me separately.

“What do you think?” Thing 1 asked.

“Um, I can’t see anything,” I replied.  Who was this chick?  I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person who can’t see when her eyes are dilated.  Was it her first day on the job?

“Well,” said Thing 2, “We can take some pictures of you in the glasses on your phone so you can see yourself.”  She was obviously the brains of this operation.

“That would be great,” I replied, but I won’t be able to see them on my phone either.”  Didn’t these people realize that if I couldn’t see my face in the mirror straight ahead, I had no chance of seeing myself shrunken and pixelized?

“If you’re going to take photos of me in the glasses, can you text them to my husband?” I asked.  I knew this was the only way I was going to get anywhere with these brainiacs.

Naturally, they thought this was the greatest idea ever.  (Duh, of course it was.)  They then took my phone and took pictures of me in different frames.  I told them who to send them to and prayed they sent them to my husband and not my pharmacist (who is also on speed dial.  Don’t judge).

I sat back and waited for his response.  I heard my phone ding indicating I had a text, but since I couldn’t see, I had to have Thing 1 and Thing 2 read the texts back to me.

“Um,” Thing 2 said, “He responded.”

“What did he say?” I asked.  Did I seriously have to hold their hands through this process?

“Um,” she said awkwardly, “He said that you need to send different pictures because these look like prison photos.”

Seriously?!  You’ve never known embarrassment until you’ve heard a text message from your husband read to you while you sit with dilated eyes.  These girls clearly thought I had an abusive husband.

“Oh,” I said, trying to brush it off.  “I’m sure he’s kidding.” I said, trying to make light of the situation, and keep them from calling the abuse hot line once I stepped foot outside the door.

About that time I heard my phone ding again and Thing 2 once again read the sweet words from my dear husband.

“He said to take the pictures from further away because the close up ones are scary and he doesn’t want to puke up his lunch.”

Ah, such kind words from my soul mate.  We then took more pictures from further away and sent them to him.  He made a decision and I thought we were done with the whole embarrassing fiasco.

But then I heard the beep again.  Uh oh.  What in the world could he want?  “Get the third pair,” Thing 2 read out loud.  “But don’t spend a million dollars though.  Did you find a coupon?”

I’m not sure how to recover from something like that.  At that point I was pretty sure these girls just wanted me out of the store and away from the grasps of my clearly domineering husband.

I looked down at the price tag of the frames I had selected and looked for the price…and saw nothing.  Frick!  No wonder the doctor was adamant about dilating my eyes!  He knew I wouldn’t be able to read the prices on the glasses and he could gouge me on the frames like he gouged me in the exam.  What a marketing scheme!

Because I wanted to get out of the store with some semblance of my dignity, I said I would take them and gave Thing 1 my credit card…or at least I hope it was my credit card.  I have no idea.  I signed something and hurried out of the store, hoping not to run into anything or anyone I knew (although I wouldn’t recognize them if I did).

I am now waiting for my glasses to come in and I have no idea what the frames look like, how much they were, or if I’m even going to like them.  What I do know is that, at least according to my husband, I won’t look like a prisoner in them.  Oh, and I also need to find a new eye doctor.