No, seriously, Mom, stop reading it if you’ve even made it this far because I’m going to talk about lasers in my eyes.
I’ll give you a minute to walk away and center yourself to find a happy place.
That’s probably not my mom’s happy place, but it’s a big enough image to keep her from seeing what I’m about to write.
Lasers in my eyes.
How it all began: I was born with less than awesome eyes (but don’t worry, the rest of me is awesome and compensates). When I was in kindergarten, I complained to my parents about not being able to see the board as clearly as I thought I should, so Mom took me to the eye doctor, where a man told me I was perfectly fine.
Fast forward to second fourth grade when: the school called my parents because I effectively failed the vision test. At that point I think I had about 20/200 vision, so that’s neat. I still don’t like that eye doctor man, and I blame him for the majority of my life problems.
Anyhow, I spent 20 years wearing glasses and about 12 of those wearing contact lenses, and I was pretty certain for most of that time I would be happy as a clam with corrective eyewear. [As an aside, how do we actually know clams are all that happy? What if they’re all suicidal?] But then … I got a little bit older and a little bit wiser and I realized corrective eyewear is a terrible terrible thing.
There’s one thing more terrible than eyewear: Not wearing makeup. Before you go all feminist on me and tell me I’m fine without makeup and don’t need it because I have a special spirit inside blah blah blah, I like wearing makeup. I like looking at it and buying it and putting it on and wearing it and trying new things. I’m even considering a lifetime of makeup artistry, so I’m not the sort of girl who can be swayed with anti-cosmetics propaganda. Makeup is just a great thing.
And to be perfectly honest, I look kind of weird without it. You know Scooter and Skeeter from “Muppet Babies”? No? Well, you should, first of all. Anyhow, when they removed their glasses, their eyes disappeared. Just became little black dots, when, with glasses, they were huge and white irised.
It’s a lot like that for me.
I blame the monolid. It’s an Asian thing, and I’ve grown to accept it, but you’ll be pretty hard pressed to find me outside my house not wearing eyeliner. I have four of them, just in case of an emergency.
So you can probably imagine how excited I was when Laura, at the Eye Institute of Utah, told me not only did I need to abstain from makeup for three days prior to the surgery (WHAT THE HECK, LAURA!?), I would also need to abstain for a full week post-op.
Um, I’m sorry, Laura, I think I must have misunderstood you when you said I couldn’t wear makeup for ten straight days. That can’t possibly be right. After all, I’m giving you full permission to bore holes into my head with lasers that will burn my retinas and make me blind, so the least you could do is give me a little leeway and allow me to look pretty afterward.
Nope. Laura didn’t budge. Laura is a little heartless.*
So I go like a lamb to the slaughter this Friday afternoon. I really don’t want to do this at all, but people tell me I won’t regret it (we’ll see, people, we’ll see), and Husband promised to buy me anything I wanted, short of plastic surgery or a new car. Anything I wanted. I’m making a list right now. You know, just in case the Valium makes me forgetful.
*Laura probably has a heart.