She Made Me Cry, Ma
I am now two weeks into my 48th year upon this here mortal coil (thank you to all the well wishers; why yes, I had a grand old time) and the time for an eye test is long overdue. If it was left up to me I would probably never make it to any medical establishment but, thankfully, the Librarian is here. She decided it was high time we all got our eyes checked.
The Librarian and the kids went first and were already done by the time I finished work and and got to the optometrist. The first thing I noticed was that optometry appears to be the exclusive purview of the extremely young, female gender; at least it was at this particular optometrist’s place of business.
After the usual tests the beautiful, young optometrist told me (in her lovely Scottish brogue) that my distance vision is perfect. (Woohoo! Beat that, you young whippersnappers!) My close up vision, however, is just a tiny bit imperfect. (Ah! Well, wait ‘til you reach my age, you young whippersnappers.) I already knew about my less than perfect vision because the distance between the written word and my eyes has increased over the last couple of years. Before too long my arms will be at full stretch just to read a magazine (I do read the articles too, you know!!!)
The beautiful, young optometrist then informed me that she was going to administer the eye pressure test. She put some drops into both eyes and – when the stinging stopped – followed with a set of yellow drops. Then, with my eyeballs suitably numbed, she performed the test and announced that everything is perfect (I did mention her lovely Scottish brogue, didn’t I?) while the yellow drops streamed down my cheeks.
The final set of tests involved an extremely bright light. The beautiful, young optometrist told me she was checking the back of my eyes. I assume she was checking my retina. She asked me to look right and left and up and down and various combinations of those directions. The bright light made it very difficult to see anything which was especially frustrating during the “look down†part. The beautiful, young optometrist was directly in front of me and I was looking down into areas that should have caused my blood pressure to rise. Blasted bright light. Couldn’t see a thing. I cried yellow tears.
The lovely Scottish brogue informed me that the back walls of my eyes are perfect. I looked in the direction of her voice, smiled and fought the urge to sing Stevie Wonder songs. Thankfully, vision returned rapidly and I found myself back at the receptionist’s desk ordering a pair of reading glasses. The young girl there informed me that I would usually be slugged $500 for the privilege of decreasing the distance between the written word and my eyes. Ignoring the wail from my wallet she then told me that there was a discount that would shave $100 off the price. Another $100 came off because our insurance company covers about 25% (gee, thanks insurance company; making good use of my premiums, are you?) so I will be out of pocket a measly $300.
We left the optometrists with a wailing wallet and more yellow tears.