Contacts vs. Blindness
Grand Old Day in St. Paul was yesterday. Jason and I had been planning how we were going to eat our way through the giant street festival, starting with giant corndogs and mini donuts and cheese curds and then maybe celebrating our accomplishment of walking the whole 2-mile stretch with some ice cream.
Instead, I ate three chicken strips and promptly lost my appetite. It wasn’t exactly too hot to be outside, but we became listless quickly. My plan early in the week was to be smart and wear lots of sunscreen and tennis shoes, but as I was getting ready yesterday, I foolishly decided on skimpy sunscreen haphazardly applied, and not only flimsy sandals, but sandals I had just purchased the day before.
Planning is not my strong suit.
Although I did have the foresight to bring my glasses along (rather, Jason did, as he was wearing cargo shorts with approximately 347 pockets), and I then had the pleasure of having my fourth brand of contacts prescribed by my third eye doctor in six months crap out halfway through the day, whereupon I got to pry around under my eyelid for my wayward contact in a stifling port-a-potty that had neither a mirror nor toilet paper – nor antiseptic hand lotion. And I had just eaten spicy chicken tenders.
My eyes burned for an hour afterward.
That whole being awake during Lasik thing? Yeah – looking better and better to me.
