"St. Genevive can hold back the water...

but saints don't bother with a tear-stained eye." ~ Son Volt, Tear-Stained Eye




About 6-7 weeks ago, I dragged myself kicking and screaming [on the inside...] to the optometrist to get contacts.

9 years ago, I let my boyfriend at the time fish my first pair of contacts out of my bloodshot eyes. That was the last time I even thought about contacts until this summer. Little seeds were planted here and there:

grocery store: Gee, I wish I could read that sign above the aisle... where the crap is the baking soda??
work: Um... who was that at the end of the corridor that waved at me?
ACL fest: Oh crap, now I have to wear glasses in front of Limey (whom I had just met days before and who still made me uber nervous)
work: Crap on a cracker! I can't see a thing on this Power Point presentation.

And since in a little less than a week, there's a Son Volt concert... I thought it might be fucking awesome to be able to discern Jay from Andrew. Yes, I know they look nothing alike! That's my point- I just couldn't see. Thank goodness Jeff Tweedy toured alone!

My eyes recoiled in horror realizing that they will be fondled on a daily basis. The blink reflex is a bitch to overcome. But one day it happened... the hour it took to insert them turned to 30 minutes, then 15, then 10, and now less than 5. Nevermind that it took losing my glasses for 2 weeks to push it to this point. Life is funny that way.

There is no more ghetto-rigging my sunglasses over my tortoiseshell catseye glasses... no more blind run-in's at work... and no more pouting and stomping and general pissed-offness at myself for being the last adult on earth to figure out contacts.

One tip, though: Wear glasses to a crawfish boil.