Jan 23, 2015 3 min read

I saw a sign that said, “Medical Negligee,” and thought, “That doesn’t sound sexy at all.” When I realized it said “Medical Negligence,” I knew it was time for my annual eye exam. There was an additional reason I knew I was ready for my yearly visit to the optometrist: I hadn’t been since 2013. Those last 754 days just flew by.

So, I went. It was a new doctor. Actually, it was the same practice, but my old optometrist moved out of state, most likely because she didn’t want me as a patient.

The first thing they do is give you a glaucoma test. They blow a puff of air into your eyeball. Ironically, the cure for glaucoma also involves puffing. Knowing they’re going to blow air into your eyeball is worse than not knowing. I stuck my head on the chin strap of the contraption. The anticipation is the worst part. I wanted to pull my face away. Once they blow into one eye, you have to get ready for them to blow into the other eye. And I thought, “No, THIS is the worst part.”

I get nervous during the eye exam. I was always a good student. I don’t like to get the answer wrong, and I don’t like to guess. The doctor said, “Just guess,” and I said, “Can you give me a hint?” I learned my new optometrist doesn’t do hints.

“Well, I think it’s a C, but without any real clues, I can’t be certain.” The C was a T and, if you didn’t notice, they look nothing alike.

He brought that domino-mask-looking apparatus down over my eyes. That’s when he started with the “Which is better? One or … (long pause) … two?”

I asked “Can I see number one again?” I wasn’t picking out a car, but I am very particular. Sometimes, I couldn’t see the difference, and he said to me, “It’s OK to say ‘about the same.'” I said, “I didn’t know that! Can we start again? I want to change some of my answers!” He didn’t let me have a “do over.”

I’m pretty sure he wrote something in my chart, a warning for future optometrists, ophthalmologists and technicians.

Then, he dilated my eyes. I got to look at frames while my pupils grew to cartoon character-sized proportions.

I’m not good at picking out frames. I found a pair I really liked, but quickly realized they were women’s frames. It wasn’t like they were pink or anything. They were wire and glass. To overcompensate, I picked out a really masculine pair. They were wire and glass. I’m pretty sure they were the same frames with different labels.

At one point, the doctor was looking into my eyes with his shiny light thingy, and he said, “Now, just focus your attention on my ear.” He had small ears for a man. They were positively dainty. I said, “Even my ears are fatter than yours. I have these big bulbous lobes. You have no fat on your lobes. Do you have to exercise for that?”

By the way, yes, I said it, and yes, my new doctor thinks I’m a nut job. Luckily, he was an optometrist and not a psychologist.