I feel sorry for Jared, my optometrist. I went in there this morning with a whole list of things I needed for my problematic eyes. It took me almost 20 minutes of complex narrative, complete with subordinate clauses and multiple parentheticals, to lay out all the potential options: continue with bifocal contacts or switch to regular ones and layer with glasses for reading? Reading glasses? Glasses to layer over contacts for computer and reading? And on and on.
And I feel doubly sorry for Dolly on the frames end of this optometric operation. Good god, poor Dolly. I walk in, she sees me, and immediately holds her index finger up, says “One minute, OK? and dashes across the street for a double espresso and chugs it before she can even begin to deal with me.
After then, after two whole hours, and much reading about the little boat that flounders along the rocky coast in increasingly smaller fonts, I emerge with one tester pair of new contacts and no frames at all. I will return tomorrow to finish. It’s like a soap opera, except I’m not having Jared’s baby, and Dolly isn’t my biological sister, separated at birth and raised by Mormons.
Oh, and the tester contacts? Full of win.
Inspiration Location 