So yesterday afternoon I went to the eye doctor, my first visit in, well, one baby ago (don't even ask me how many babies ago it has been since I visited the dentist).
So I fibbed a bit in estimating how old my contacts were. Five months (give or take 2 years?), I guessed when asked.
Looking at my eyes, the optometrist asked if my right eye feels gritty. "Why, yes, it does," I said, crossing my fingers that I didn't have some horrible eye disfigurement.
"Your contact has a tiny tear in it. That's why it's uncomfortable," he kindly explained.
Well, now, that would do it, wouldn't it?
When the exam was over and I was comfortably wearing a new pair of trial contacts, the doctor seemed surprised that my eyes have improved and that my contacts were less strong than the ones I came in with.
A possible explanation could be that I've been walking around wearing the Mister's contacts for the past year. My replacements had been long gone, and his extras were just sitting, neglected, on the shelf, and our prescriptions were fairly close and I just didn't have time to get in to see the eye doctor, so. . .
"I eat a lot of carrots," I offered up as a possible explanation.
The doctor raised an eyebrow, and I could see his mind's eye wondering how the State of Wisconsin could possibly think how it is a good idea for a woman like me to be home educating her children.
I spent the early part of the morning reveling in just how well I could see everything! Until a few minutes ago, when I noticed it raining outside. I raced out to the bowed laundry line, completely overladen with a week's worth of Hatfield and Paloma's clothing.
There I was frantically ripping clothing off the line, determined to get every last piece off before it was all soaked. Clothespins were flying through the air like grenades did in WWI, and I suddenly could hear slight chuckling.
My super duper 20/20 vision caught sight of my dear 82-year old neighbor, laughing at my laundry line antics in this early hour.
This new vision is doing nothing for my humility. I think I'm better off going back to the Mister's contacts. Sure, I'd still be laughed at, but at least it would be behind my blind-as-a-bat back.