Recently, I have been lying awake at night self-diagnosing a brain abnormality - just for good fun. Pressure in the sinus cavity along with blurriness in the eyes? Yes. Light headaches behind the eyes? Yes. Eyelid twitching into contortions randomly for the last four months? YES! It must be something horrendous - right?
So I responsibly haul me and my head to the opthamologist - expecting grave news. No - turns out I'm just old. This seems to be a theme with me lately. Apparently, I'm so old that the vitreous juice or whatever it is in my eyes has darn near dried up - to the parched desert stage... causing headaches, blurriness, and yes - random twitching. The diagnosis: Old Eyes.
Me and my eyes - we go way back - like over 40 years or something. I've been tossing out guesses at the "Can you read anything below this line?" chart for quite some time now. Turns out, eyes don't get smarter as they grow up. They just get dumber and dumber. And, not everyone qualifies for remediation, special education, or a Title 1 program to get them up to "grade level." Yes, I know, glasses are quite helpful and I am extremely grateful to that clever little Benjamin Franklin who fashioned the first pair - extremely grateful. And I know many have had jolly good results with lasik surgery - it just seems that I have never been labeled the "perfect candidate" with my lazy eye, severe myopia, astigmatism, and autoimmune disease. (That really makes me sound like a hot little number, doesn't it?) I've had doctors look at my eyes, scratch their chins and say things like, "Well... I guess we could try it... it you want."
So for me, the problem lies in the fact that at the eye doctor's office, they don't let me fake it. They make me remove my glasses, while they secretly assemble some fancy eye charts, and then taunt me with heavy sighs and by saying things after my earnest attempts like, "There are no numbers up there." or "No... that's not a teddy bear - it's an R." I know I'm not supposed to feel dumb. I mean it's not my fault, right? But that little exchange of conversation doesn't exactly make me feel like a Rhodes Scholar either. Then you throw in a chaser of "You need to see me every year from now on, take this vat of eye drop moisturizers with you, and here's a prescription for bifocals," and you've got a party.
The good news? No grave medical diagnosis. The bad news? This "party" ain't slowin' down - I'm afraid it's an all-nighter.