09.23.06
Because God is Punishing Me for My Vanity
If you want to undo years of self-development and devolve back into a level of self-consciousness not experienced since you were in junior high (spurring inevitable questions about just how much self-esteem you’ve truly developed over the last fifteen or so years), I suggest wearing an eye patch. It is really hard to feel just-the-way-you-are pretty when you’re wearing an eye patch. Almost as bad as the eye patch itself is the fact that eye patches don’t really breathe and you get one really sweaty eye. So if it is actually possible to feel sexy despite the jarring presence of what is typically a prop used in Halloween costumes, the unexpected addition of eye sweat will totally kill any lingering nubility. The final insult in the whole eye patch experience is the elastic, which digs into your face and causes unsightly red marks across your forehead.
After my appointment with the ophthalmologist on Thursday, I was freed from the eye patch. I very much looked forward to appearing normal—just a lady, with just eyes—on the bus ride home. Let’s face it: when you’re on the bus where it’s highly likely that a stranger is going to encroach upon your personal space, you’re in a heightened state of self-preservation and find yourself performing discreet psychiatric assessments of your fellow passengers so as to position yourself nearest the passengers who will not freak you out. Basically, we’re all seeking that ideal passenger who does not have B.O., who is not clinically insane, and who will extend the courtesy of blandly ignoring you should they sit next to you. Therefore, if you’re going to go for someone looking as normal as possible, you’re likely to shy away from someone sporting an eye patch. Just in case.
My appearing normal once again on the public transit system had one more pit stop that I hadn’t taken into consideration. In order to see if my retina was detached or detaching or whatever, the doctor had to dilate my pupils and administered drops that did so rather aggressively. These drops were, like, industrial strength or something. I’ve had them before, but this? This was nutty. My eyes became less so organs through which I see and more so vehicles through which unrefined blobs of sense data assaulted my brain. The world became a sea of askew rays of coloured light through which I had to navigate my body. And I had one train ride, a TRANSFER from the train to the bus (which involved navigating a series of escalators), the bus ride itself, and the four-block walk from the bus stop to the safety of my apartment.
Naturally, I made a spectacle of myself in what I thought would be my triumphant, eye-patch free return to the public eye. I went careening down the aisle of the train, tripped over someone’s foot, and crashed into my seat, sort of half belly flopping onto it. I then corrected the belly flop by standing again and trying to perform the natural seating motions. Only I completely overestimated the height at which the seat stood and went into a free fall, so that my ass made a loud smacking sound when it finally connected with the chair. People looked on with concern. And then they noticed the pupils the size of frying pans, the way my eyes spiraled about in a desperate bid to focus, the alarming way I couldn’t quite place a grasp on the world around me. And then I would sense it, their primal fear: “Oh, God. Don’t let that junkie chick who’s fucked up on God knows what sit next to me.” They all thought it. I know they did. That’s what I would think. I felt their collective relief when I managed to get off the train (after wildly stabbing my finger into the air multiple times in my attempt to press the button that opens the door, only successfully disembarking because someone got up from their seat and wordlessly pressed the button for me).
The bus ride was slightly less humiliating. I didn’t try to sit, so as to avoid a repeat performance of the train-sitting debacle. However, I did have to ask the bus driver (in a voice that I couldn’t prevent from sounding harried and desperate) which bus I was on, and there was a tiny pause while she sized me up before answering me in a voice that was at once tired (she has seen so many junkies and weirdos in her day) and authoritative (indicating, I suppose, that she could see I was on something and would deal with me if she had to).
It took hours for the drops to wear off. Once I was able to see again, though, I, of course, took a picture of my crazy alien, junkie eyes with Photo Booth because I am obsessed with Photo Booth.
Now I ask you, if you saw this woman thrashing about on the train and caught a glimpse of those eyes, what would you think? (Click to enlarge. [The picture, not my pupils, silly.])
