One of my many blessings in life is my eyesight from hell.
Without aid from the wonders of optometry, I can’t operate a vehicle, I can’t see the alarm clock from my bed and I can’t find a contact lens when I’m drunk.
Since gracing earth with my presence I’ve worn glasses and adapted to doing all kinds of activities in the lovely plastic specs that took up half of my facial circumference daily.
Dancing in tap class? No problemo.
Eating birthday cake in gigantic red goggles? Got it.
Playing catcher for a girl’s softball team? Easy peasy.
Putting a catcher’s mask over my subtle, cherry red eyewear was about as much fun as you can imagine. Especially when I’d dramatically rip off my mask (and also accidentally tear my glasses off in the process) in an attempt to catch a foul ball behind home base, which never happened as I couldn’t see shit without those Coke bottle sized lenses in front of my eyes.
When I was presented with the opportunity to swap my daily face accessory with contact lenses, I jumped at the chance. Surely, by getting contacts I would magically turn into a gorgeous mini version of Cindy Crawford, Heidi Klum or Gisele Bundchen.
The transformation was amazing…
But that didn’t thwart my attempts to be a Midwestern model.
While forcing plastic lenses (gas permeable, mind you) into my eyes as a kid surprisingly didn’t turn me into a supermodel, they did help the moderate to high astigmatism that plagued my eyeballs. Having contacts also taught me the importance of routine, as I had to clean the teeny tiny lenses morning and night which years later is as much a part of my daily activities as sipping a Skinny Pirate.
Speaking of routines and alcohol, I never ever go to sleep without taking my hard contacts out. So even when I’ve had
five two cocktails too many, my body goes through the motions of removing my seeing aides.
One recent evening after happy hour, I popped my left lens out and instead of having it fall into my palm as usual, it suddenly disappeared.
Into thin air.
Thing is, hard contacts are about half the size of your pinky nail. And my contacts are clear. Upon realizing my mistake, I immediately became a statue, trying to not move a muscle while reaching for my trusty old spectacles.
Then I started to slowly gaze over the mounds of beauty products in an open drawer next to my contact case.
Then I lightly combed the vanity with my fingers hoping to recover the hard piece of plastic.
Then with a slight pit in my stomach, I looked toward the floor covered in khaki carpet.
Slightly drunk, kinda blind and after crawling on my hands and knees for half of the evening, I threw in the towel on trying to locate the little bastard.
The next morning, I was getting ready to hop in the shower and went to grab my towel that hangs on the door directly behind the sink where my contact went missing.
And what to my wondering eyes did appear?
There was a miracle that morning, folks. My thumb slightly brushed up against the piece of modern medicine that makes my eyes happy on the pink terry cloth.
So how did my contact end up on a towel that was behind my head when I popped it out of my eye? It will forever be a mystery to this slightly drunk and kinda blind gal.
I’m just happy I don’t currently have four eyes.