Actually, I can’t see for miles and miles. I can’t even see for inches and inches. Without help, I can see just about to the end of my nose. I’m so completely, totally, and probably irrevocably nearsighted that no one could possibly need drugs when I’m around. Just pop my glasses on for a few minutes and take a happy little trip. Remember that episode of The Simpsons when Marge said “The walls are melting again…”? That’s you. On my glasses. Good times.

Anyway, I think I’ve been wearing my contacts way too long and working my eyes much too hard of late. They’re tired. I have a headache. I had an exam in May, so nothing major should be wrong (I hope). But I seem to have trouble focusing (literally and figuratively as well, but that’s a story for another day), and this puts dark thoughts in my head. I make my living reading and writing, and that, my friends, involves using my eyes. Earlier in the day, I launched myself into the whole “Oh-God-I’m-going-blind-what-if-I-can’t-read-and-edit-anymore-we-will-be-screwed-and-lose-our-house-and-wind-up-living-under-a-bridge-like-trolls” spiel. I’m over that, thankfully. The worry and the melodrama.

But I think what I’m really worried about is having to wear glasses. Exclusively. Seriously. I’m not a glasses kind of girl. I know many people who wear them all the time and are quite happy with them, but I’m not. Not at all. Even thin lenses have me resembling a mole who has just emerged into the sunlight. I am a supremely cool and lovely person, but no one would have married me if I had been wearing these glasses. I need my contacts just to see peripherally, but for crying out loud, the mere thought of popping them into my eyes has me crying like your mother on the first day of kindergarten.

So, meh. We’ll see. Let’s hope for a good night’s sleep and smooth sailing for my drive to the beach tomorrow.

Advertisements