Contact!
I’ve done a lot of really stupid things to impress women. I use “stupid” as a catch-all term for both the things that are dangerous and possibly illegal and the things that are just so utterly lame that I can’t believe that, at one point in time, I was completely convinced that it would seem really impressive.
Did you ever see that Simpsons where Milhouse gets Krusty’s autograph on his stomach to impress girls, and then he shows the girls, and they all run away screaming? That scene sums up roughly 60% of the things I’ve done to impress the fairer sex.
When I was a junior in high school, a really, really slutty girl was very attracted to me. Honestly, in high school, the only women I could attract were either (1) so skanky that they were completely indiscriminate, (2) so desperate that they thought I looked good, or (3) insane. Not much has changed since then, except that I can categorize them into one of those three groups. In high school, I used to categorize them as follows: (1) she likes me, therefore I must attempt to date her.
At any rate, this slutty girl was under the impression that under the doughy, acne-splatter facade she saw raged a tiger rippling with muscles and an aesthetically pleasing complexion; she was mistaken, but this did not stop her from not-very-coyly prodding me into transforming my physique into something presentable. The first thing to go: the glasses.
One day, perched cautiously on my thunderous thighs, she pulled my glasses off and announced, “You’d look a lot better with contacts.” An interesting point.
After school, I made an appointment with my ophthalmologist so I could get contacts. She gave me a sample pair, showed me how to put them in and take them out, and then left me on my own to practice putting them in and taking them out. Thirty minutes later without anything to show for it, I decided to give up. What the hell was the point?
Defeated, I meandered home, wondering what I could possibly do to get rid of the glasses. I couldn’t go without them, because I’d both be blind and my lazy eye — the primary reason for getting glasses in the first place — would start floating all over the place, which is even more unappealing than glasses.
I decided to take the honest — and stupid — approach, and I explained my plight to the slutty girl. She responded thoughtfully by going into graphic detail about how she had been fooling around with a senior when her parents walked into the room. I think she broke up with me at that point, although I was never really positive that we were actually going out. She may still think we’re still an item at this point. She was not very bright.
Flash-forward four years. The lazy eye is gone after a painful and irritating surgery, but the glasses remain. I was getting sick of them, so at my last ophthalmologist appointment, I asked about trying contacts again. I decided that it would be more reasonable, in the grand scheme of things, if I used the Extended Wear contacts, which apparently no longer act as horrible bacterial petri dishes that cause eyes to look roughly like the Horsehead Nebula after sleeping in them.
She introduced me to a strange, short optometrist who works in her office, and he showed me how to put in and take out contacts in greater — and more painful — detail. Still, being the completely incompetent person that I am, coupled with my intense phobia of getting my hands in the general vicinity of my eyeball, it took me an hour and a half to get them in and out and then back in again.
My eyes were stinging, tearing (that’s as in “teardrop,” not like I tore my eyeball apart — goddamn the English language!), swollen, and bloodshot. Despite the fact that it was painful and I would express my pain by saying things such as “Ow,” the optometrist kindly assured me that “there is no ‘ow.’” He will not be getting a Christmas card.
When I got home, my mother showed me what she assumed was an easier way to get the contacts in and out. Since it only took me an hour, I guess she was technically correct. Still, I kept them out because my eyes were extremely irritated and swollen, and I didn’t need them getting more irritated. I figured I’d let them recover for a few days before trying again.
So Tuesday night, I tried again. It took me another hour to get them in, but I decided I would keep them in for at least a few days, to see how horrible sleeping in them actually was. If it worked out, I’d just keep them in until I needed to replace them. I still didn’t like putting in the contacts (taking them out isn’t as bad), but I felt better about myself because I was doing this to help myself, not to impress the ladies (who, honestly, aren’t impressed by the things I do anymore; actually, they never were, but my ability to deny that is wearing thin).
So Wednesday passed with few problems, except that the right lens was somewhat blurry. Thursday attempted to pass, as well, but things got bad. That blurriness in my right lens? It got worse during class. By the time I was driving home, I could barely see anything more then ten feet away from me. This is not a good thing while driving.
Smart people — i.e., people who aren’t me — would have pulled over, said, “Gosh, I can’t drive. I should get some help,” and then wait for said help to arrive. I did this: I closed my right eye. And I’m not dead or injured, and neither is my car, so I guess that worked out.
When I got home, I took them out. My mother insists that either I tore or smudged the lens. I’ve been so frustrated by the contacts — somebody at some point told me they were easier than dealing with glasses; what in the hell happened to that? — that I haven’t put them back in. I’m still not sure if I will or not.
I think I’ve given up. Again.
Posted by Stan on June 28, 2003 10:33 PM | Permalink | Stories of Pain and Humiliation | Digg It
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