Yesterday, after bitching, kvetching and planning, I finally got off my ass and went to an optometrist and got contact lenses. At thirty-one, I’ve had glasses since second grade. I only began wearing them and thereby becoming dependent on them, since 2002. Before that, blind as I am, I somehow semi-successfully lived with the blur.

However, wearing glasses, day in and day out, shortly began to drive me up the fucking wall. Along with a shifty personality, I also have an suspicious look about me. My face is ever so slightly shifted right, with a slightly crooked nose and the left ear a tad bit higher than the other. This evidence of derelict genes makes it pretty much impossible to wear a pair of glasses in a straight position. Try as I may to set them correctly, within a few minutes, they would once again be askew, further contributing to the tendency of women, children and senior citizens giving me a wide berth when in public. I always look a bit off, which isn’t really that misleading, if I were to be speaking truthfully. I was raised wrong. Mercury is not an acceptable substitute for Kook-Aid. Take note, parents everywhere.

Still, as suspect as I may appear, I need to see. Living in a blur sucks. People hate you because you never wave back to them when they spot you from across the street. You get lost easily when navigating by street sign and everyone assumes you are perpetually angry because you maintain a constant, tortured squint. You’re lonely and consistently bitchy, so you suck it up and wear the fucking eye-goggles.

These past few months, the drudgery of being chained to my glasses in order to fully or even semi-function has really started to chisel at my testicles with a rusty leprechaun. An unpleasant experience. I decided to suck up all the neurotic fears I have about eyeballs, eyelids (and their insides) and touching things moist and made an appointment to get some contact lenses.

At first, I was absolutely determined to overcome any issues with contacts. I wanted out of the whole glasses deal. Two days into having them, sitting on the couch, with usable sight out of only my left eye, I question this determination. I’d completely underestimated how utterly horrible the act of putting contacts in and taking them back out is. Placing them, the lens refuses to leave my finger and stick to my eye. Wet finger, dry—it doesn’t seem to matter. Taking them out involves thirty to forty-five minutes of dragging my finger across the surface of my eye, poking, swearing and whimpering missives to the patron saint of dudes with shaky hands and really, really irritated eyes. I cannot understand how millions of people word-wide do this every single day. I understand that somehow, it gets easier, but I think I may actually rub, poke and scratch myself blind before ever hitting that point. My eyes are not happy.

To add to the suffering, this morning I made the mistake of putting the lenses in my eye, inside out. After two hours to tearing up, blurry and cloudy vision, I guessed something else was up other than my eyes becoming acclimatized and called my eye doctor. On advisement, I once again repeated the torture of removing and replacing the lenses, correctly this time. I’ll admit that properly placed, I barely know that they’re there and compulsively check mirrors to make sure I actually have them in, but fuck…getting them back out is such a bitch.

Since this is my first try at contact lenses, the doctor gave me only one two week sample. After this trial, I can order a six month supply. I already plan on ordering more. I have to have another option to glasses. I just hope that things go easier with wearing them.

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