Recently, I had to buy glasses.
As usual I managed to turn the slightest imposition on my floppy existence into a made for TV movie based off a 90s reboot of a 70s soap opera.
That image in your head does not equate my suffering these past few weeks.
Any change to my eye prescription, including tiny changes that the optometrist doesn’t believe warrants new glasses, results in the migraine monkey doing poorly planned DIY in my fragile mind. I took two sick days this week.
So I have heightened light sensitivity and my job entails 7 hour staring contests with computer screens. Boo!
Bu-ut this ushers forth a company eyecare scheme. Yay!
Double bu-ut, this eye care scheme is only useful if used at the optician selected by my employer. Double Boo!
Already this is beyond the level of effort I’m willing to expend on life when leaving the house on a beautifully sunny morning results in a vampiric hiss and hasty retreat to the darkness of my duvet.
But I brave the outdoors and travel over an hour to the necessary optician dragging Mother along as a necessary support system. I discover two things on this trip.
- My mother thinks all glasses look “fine”. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?? Blast the sighted!!
- My eye care scheme gives me a 20% discount (Yay!) off glasses that are already 3 times more expensive than the glasses I would normally buy (Boo!).
I sometimes feel the universe needs a firm whack on the nose.
After these enlightening thoughts Mother made it known that she requires tea as her support system and as I required her as my support system I decided to take her to my usual café. Located back in the direction we had come… over an hour away; a café rather close to my usual optician. I wasn’t smiling when I put this together.
I contemplated many things on the bus ride back. Hunger, shame and rage all played into this. Ultimately, I came to the sorry conclusion that my endeavours thus far had resulted in failure.
Plan B was to get to my usual optician, buy some glasses, head to the café and laugh fancifully at a twisted afternoon.
The optician was closed.
I hate this town.
5 pm should not be bedtime on a Saturday.
Plan Fracking C was to crawl to the café, buy Mother something with sugar for her troubles and scoff down chips and fried chicken.
Food worked. So well that later this success was replayed with frozen pizza, spicy Paninis and a croissant lathered in goat cheese.
The events of this day provided an epiphany.
Food is always the answer.
Or join my mailing list. I post irregularly because employment. I promise I don’t have time to spam you.
Or read some recent posts that I am quite proud of:
- My senior cat’s daily routine (includes monster poos and dog beds)5 minutes of descriptive prose of my new cat’s first week with me.
- the Olympics is when I revel in my ignorance of all sports.800 words of confused Olympic joy.
- Do you ignore your tea until it gets cold?3 min quickie about when your tea goes cold. Heavy journalistic stuff. Proceed with caution.
- I took a week off work, but it didn’t change my life.5 min read about expecting too much from yourself because #alwaysbehustlin’
- My Sunday evening: doomscrolling, taking offense and yogaQuickie 2 min read about that dread you feel every Sunday evening.