in the country of the blind
As I recently noted over at nayad’s place, I have a long list of repeating nightmares. One common recurring theme is ‘bits of me that break’ - most commonly teeth breaking or falling out, hair being cut or falling out, or contacts shattering either in my hand or in my eye.
I guess my contacts are not technically a piece of me, but they might as well be; I’m certainly as dependent upon them as any usual body part. I’ve had contacts for over thirty years now - much longer than I’ve had, say, breasts - having acquired them at the tender young age of seven, because my eyes were just That Bad.
In this age of disposable soft lenses and lasik surgery I am suited for neither; I’ve still got the old-style ‘hard’ or ‘rigid’ lenses valiantly trying to hold some shape to my poor eyeballs. Rigid lenses are both breakable and expensive, a happy combination.
I wasn’t very good at taking care of my contacts at seven (or eight, or nine), something which frustrated and angered my parents no end at the time, but to which I now say, WELL DUH. Your average seven-year-old is NOT EQUIPPED to handle very tiny fragile pieces of plastic several times a day without a certain amount of attrition.
I lost quite a few contact lenses as a kid but only ever broke one once. I was around eight or nine and apparently managed to snap it inside the case; when I next went to put it in I was confronted with spiky shards-of-contact, and a sick ‘Oh god I am so dead’ feeling.
This no doubt informed my nightmares for the next three decades. Often my sleeping brain elaborated upon the concept with charming scenarios that involved sticking a contact into my eyeball without noticing its brokenness, followed by all sorts of gelatinous slicing and inability to remove the offending object. But other times the dreams involved a simple, straightforward snap followed by the horrifying realization that a) that was going to cost a whole lot of money and b) I was screwed for actual sight.
So on Monday, when I got up from a nap (ah, holidays) and opened my case and picked up HALF A CONTACT my first three thoughts were, “Oh shit,” “Oh wait, this must be another one of those dreams,” and “No way, am I actually awake??”.
My second three thoughts were “Fuck me,” “Fuck me,” and “Fuck me.”
Anyway, that was Monday afternoon. Tuesday morning at 9:00:23a I was on the phone to my optometrist’s office; they rush-ordered a replacement lens for me, which I got shortly after lunchtime Wednesday. I appreciate their promptness, because it was pretty much like being without a hand. Yeah sure, you’ve still got one, but you don’t realize exactly how much you need that second one until it's gone.
I guess my contacts are not technically a piece of me, but they might as well be; I’m certainly as dependent upon them as any usual body part. I’ve had contacts for over thirty years now - much longer than I’ve had, say, breasts - having acquired them at the tender young age of seven, because my eyes were just That Bad.
In this age of disposable soft lenses and lasik surgery I am suited for neither; I’ve still got the old-style ‘hard’ or ‘rigid’ lenses valiantly trying to hold some shape to my poor eyeballs. Rigid lenses are both breakable and expensive, a happy combination.
I wasn’t very good at taking care of my contacts at seven (or eight, or nine), something which frustrated and angered my parents no end at the time, but to which I now say, WELL DUH. Your average seven-year-old is NOT EQUIPPED to handle very tiny fragile pieces of plastic several times a day without a certain amount of attrition.
I lost quite a few contact lenses as a kid but only ever broke one once. I was around eight or nine and apparently managed to snap it inside the case; when I next went to put it in I was confronted with spiky shards-of-contact, and a sick ‘Oh god I am so dead’ feeling.
This no doubt informed my nightmares for the next three decades. Often my sleeping brain elaborated upon the concept with charming scenarios that involved sticking a contact into my eyeball without noticing its brokenness, followed by all sorts of gelatinous slicing and inability to remove the offending object. But other times the dreams involved a simple, straightforward snap followed by the horrifying realization that a) that was going to cost a whole lot of money and b) I was screwed for actual sight.
So on Monday, when I got up from a nap (ah, holidays) and opened my case and picked up HALF A CONTACT my first three thoughts were, “Oh shit,” “Oh wait, this must be another one of those dreams,” and “No way, am I actually awake??”.
My second three thoughts were “Fuck me,” “Fuck me,” and “Fuck me.”
Anyway, that was Monday afternoon. Tuesday morning at 9:00:23a I was on the phone to my optometrist’s office; they rush-ordered a replacement lens for me, which I got shortly after lunchtime Wednesday. I appreciate their promptness, because it was pretty much like being without a hand. Yeah sure, you’ve still got one, but you don’t realize exactly how much you need that second one until it's gone.