Perfect Vision

Today I nearly experienced a miracle. I put my contact lenses in and my vision got blurry. Usually I can just blink the contact into the right position and all’s well. This time the blinky blinky wasn’t working. By the time I realized my contacts were not working my fingers were coated with tinted moisturizer. So instead of taking my contact out, I just kept blinking. Still blurry. hmmm. Weird, I thought. I got dressed, then realized I couldn’t read anything. Everything was blurry. I needed to deal with this. I went back upstairs and took out my contacts.  This is when things got really strange.
 
My vision IMPROVED. Now nothing was blurry. I looked outside, and could make out leaf detail, not just one big green patch. My contacts were out and I could SEE.
 
I was elated. I think I’ve heard of this happening. People aging and their vision improving. For once in my life, I’m the lucky duck. I’ve been cured of myopia. I’ve got the golden ticket!
 
It really was remarkable. Miraculous. Alas, no. I then poked myself in the eye in the way that only a contact user can do, and realized there were contacts IN MY EYES.  Jesus. I don’t know which emotion is greater, disappointment or embarrassment.  I'm alone in my bathroom yet somehow embarrassed at my own dopiness.

Not that it’s out of character. I have a strain of absent-mindedness that can make life feel like an I Love Lucy episode. I have to put daily medication in one of those old lady daily pill dispensers because I not only forget TO take a pill, I’ll forget that I just DID take a pill and take it again. When I got my first paycheck, as a teenager, I deposited the pay stub and threw away the check.
 
Two summers ago we kept the big Thule storage carrier atop the minivan for a few weeks. I forgot it was there—I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s not like you can see it up there while you’re driving. You can hear it though, when it scrapes the concrete roof of a parking garage. I did that once in the garage next to Bloomingdale’s.
 
Here’s the thing that makes me an amateur Lucille Ball. I did it AGAIN. The next day. The stream of expletives that flew out of my mouth will stay with my children for years. The second time, I couldn’t scrape the car out. I was stuck in the middle of a university parking garage during camp drop-off and my car was completely jammed, blocking everyone. Jeff had to come to where I was and unwedge the van from the parking garage structure. He rarely gets mad at me, but I think he was a little mad at me that day. “I just don’t understand how you can do this twice,” he said. He would never put two pairs of contacts in.
 
One of my best friends once walked all the way to work with the back of her skirt tucked into her underwear. I think this is why I love her. She was so rightfully angry at the entire city of Washington, DC, because no one on her subway commute ever saw fit to tell her.
 
I mean, c’mon. Nobody’s perfect.