The joy one gains from poking oneself in the eye…

The highlight of my Saturday a couple of weeks ago was spending 150 minutes in an opticians. In case you’re wondering how you could possibly spend that long having an eye test and choosing new glasses, it went something like this:
2.20 – Arrive for eye test
2.40 – Eye test takes place
3.00 – Investigate options for new glasses
3.25 – Discover non-existence of rounded frames (previous favourites)
3.30 – After ridiculous conversation with sales assistant who clearly knows nothing of the whims of women, head back upstairs to talk to someone about contacts.
3.40 – Another eye test
4.10 – Book follow-up appointments
4.15 – Look at glasses again
4.20 – Give up, pay for eye test and leave. Go to the Boots next door to look at more glasses.
4.25 – Find things to be even more dismal in Boots and return to Specsavers
4.40 – Finally have sensible female sales assistant who assists in choice of complimentary frames for face shape and skin tone.
4.50 – Leave opticians having ordered new glasses.
Phew. Even recounting it exhausts me!
It was something of a relief that when I returned the following Thursday I was able to pick up the new glasses as well as complete phase 1 of contact lens induction, saving me another visit on Saturday.
So, I’ve ticked another of the original 2010 Firsts off the list. I have successfully demonstrated that I am able to poke myself in both eyes twice – once to insert lens, once to remove it. I walked away with four days’ worth of daily disposables and was overjoyed that I could see perfectly without specs on.
In fact, such was my joy that I nearly wrote this post last week in the immediate euphoria. However, pride cometh before a fall…
The following day I spent half an hour in the office toilets trying to put the lenses in. It had clearly been a classic case of first time lucky the day before. Of course, while I stood poking myself repeatedly, three contacts-wearing colleagues appeared offering varying degrees of helpful advice. Eventually I reappeared at my desk looking as though I’d just suffered a traumatic emotional crisis.
It didn’t end there. Something wasn’t quite right with the right eye. Perhaps it was inside out, maybe it was dirty after so many failed attempts – whatever it was, it was highly irritating. It got to the point where I was holding my eye open in an effort not to blink and a friend who’d put up with a couple of hours sat opposite me over coffee doing strange things with my eyes suggested it might be time to take it out.
[Note: If one takes out one lens, one ought to take out both. One should not attempt to walk along a busy road with just a single lens in, it lends the world a rather bizarre quality.]
I’ve yet to return to the lenses. There are three pairs left and I’m a little apprehensive, but it’s important to jump back on the horse isn’t it?
And why do I want lenses in the first place? Because I am vain.
I like my eyes and don’t want them covered up by glasses.
I’m quite a fan of good eye-make up and the glasses get in the way.
It’s annoying when rain falls on them or I enter a warm room and they steam up.
Don’t worry, I’ll persist. I’ve not come this far to give up at the final hurdle. [Is that two horse-racing metaphors in three paragraphs? Oh dear.]  

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