i don't have to see my final result to know that i failed the exam. on the brighter side, at least it was neither a "first response" nor a "congratulations, you're not pregnant, but here's the real reason why you're feeling a bit off down there" type of test. the overwhelming sense of failure at not being able to read the "easy" letter is worse than letting the bank teller see you are unable to identify which cluster of digits on your cheque is your bank account number. fortunately, much like a chlamydia-free diagnosis, the silver lining is that i am not yet destined for old lady bi-focals.
as far as my traumatic childhood experiences can be stretched to excuse the chronic avoidance, visits to the optician are staggered on much the same schedule as pelvic exams and equally pointier and scrapier dental probes.
after a series of puffs of air, flashes of traffic lights, and photos taken of the back of my ocular cavity that looked like red water balloons, the final diagnosis was that i had almost reached the glass ceiling of visual deterioration. the prescription had gone up to: "you are like a bat in the daylight that has had vaseline smeared across it's corneas". followed by an equally miserable treatment plan: "please walk this way to consult with our frame expert who will then set you up with a super cute, and super over priced pair of glasses (with anti-reflective, UV protectants that the people at NASA use), and for an additional $149.99 we can shrink the thick as watermelon skin lenses into svelte little onion peels".
he did mention that due to my level of myopia, annual visits would be reccomended as i was at a higher risk for something with far too many syllables for me to remember later and obsessivley google.
at least i already have the yellow dog, which will be great if i'm ever trying to hunt down a tampon under the ottoman.
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