Monday, August 29, 2011

My incomplete blink

The title of this post is not a metaphor. It is not intended to be poetic in any way. An actual eye doctor told me I have an incomplete blink. Apparently that’s a thing.

In 2005, I attempted to wear contacts. After months of fussing with those stupid things, I was so over it. My eyes burned and itched all day long, and they were a huge pain to get in and take out every day. When I told my eye doctor that I didn’t want to deal with contacts anymore, he said it sounded like my eyes were excessively dry, and he took a closer look at them through a magnifying lens.

“You have an incomplete blink,” he declared.

“I have a what?” I asked.

“An incomplete blink,” he said again, as if I just hadn’t heard him. “You’re eyes don’t actually close all the way when you blink.”

The doctor said that this meant I probably didn’t close my eyes all the way when I slept either. (I know, creepy, right?) So he gave me a small tube of gel and told me to apply it to the inside of my lower lids right before bed every night to help create a seal. Supposedly, that should help with the dryness and make my contacts more comfortable to wear. Okaaaay….

That night, I got ready for bed and then applied the gel as directed. The doctor failed to mention that it would immediately blur my vision. I couldn’t see a thing. Awesome.

So I felt around for the wall switch and turned off the bathroom light. Now, my vision is blurry and it’s pitch black. More awesome.

I stretched my hands out in front of me like a zombie to find the doorway into the bedroom. I finally found it… with my forehead. Ow! Dammit! Now, my vision is blurry, it’s pitch black and my head hurts. Grrrr…

I walked slowly into the bedroom, one arm stretched out, the other hand on my head wound, and tried to find the bed. Instead, I found my ex-husband’s mountain of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. I tripped on a shoe that had gotten partially buried beneath the pile and twisted my ankle. DAMMIT! 

Now my vision is blurry, it’s pitch black, my head hurts and my ankle is throbbing. At this point, I’m cursing the ex-husband (who wasn't home at the time, and who is now my ex for a zillion reasons that are probably becoming more apparent).

I finally crawled into bed.

The next morning I showed up for work with burning, red-rimmed eyes (due to an adverse reaction to the gel), a purple goose egg on my forehead, and a slight limp.

My good friend, Whitney, whom I worked with at the time, took one look at me and started cracking up.

“What the hell happened to you, princess?” (She calls me that because of the irony, like calling a fat man “Tiny.”)

“It’s all because of my incomplete blink,” I said, and I told her the story. By the end she was crying from laughter and holding her stomach. “So glad I could amuse you,” I said.

After that, it became a big joke around the office. Any time something went wrong, my incomplete blink was the cause of it.

My car broke down, and I was late for work. Probably because of my incomplete blink.

Whit had to do a 27th revision of a Power Point presentation for our boss. Probably because of my incomplete blink.

The doughnuts in the café were gone by the time we got there. Again, all because of my incomplete blink.

The company laid off 500 people. Stupid incomplete blink.

I never used that eye gel again. I never attempted to wear contacts again either. My eyesight’s not that bad, and I like my blink just the way it is, thank you very much.