We’ve come to rely so heavily on our sense of sight, that we are willing to pop $500 for a pair of designer glasses that will, at some time in its designer life, see the inside of the dryer. Despite my diligence in observing eye safety (a pair of sunglasses and eye drops left over from the Nixon administration) I recently underwent several assaults on my retina.
When I went to the doctor’s office for my arthritic knee, I was told to step up on the scale. This has not been cause for rejoicing for, lo, these last two years or so. I made the mistake of looking directly at the digital readout. Fortunately, they keep smelling salts taped to the wall next to the scale for just such an emergency.
I’ve spent the last week hunched over the computer, working on an editing project. You would think that scanning hundreds of pages for errant semi-colons and misplaced modifiers would be hard on the eyes. If only that was the worst that life could throw at my corneas.
A few days ago I was toweling off after my shower. As I pulled up my pants, I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw jiggling. We’re talking Jello on a warm day jiggling. My pasty white waistline was doing the wave. I quickly averted my eyes, because as we know, if you didn’t see it, it never happened. Too late! The image was already scorched into my visual cortex like dimples on a baby’s butt.
The sound that erupted from my throat was rather like a goat being mauled by 3 year-olds at a petting zoo. Note to parents: don’t take your kids to the zoo after feeding them Sugar-Frosted Zombie Bombs.
Where was I?
Where are your failing mental faculties when you need them? I’m desperately hoping for a major senior moment or minor stroke so I will file the jiggling scene into the space provided for remembering where I put my glasses. I better go check the dryer.