Bluriness is in the eyes of the beholder |

Bluriness is in the eyes of the beholder

Alison Berkley
Aspen, CO Colorado

After being urged by many friends who are concerned about my blindness, I finally got my eyes checked.

It turns out it’s me who’s blurry, not my eyes.

I don’t know this yet, as I’m driving south on 285 thinking it’s good I’m finally going to the eye doctor since I have to squint to read the signs and almost miss my exit.

After spending the required 28 minutes in the waiting room, I’m put in a windowless room where a lady wearing scrubs with Easter bunnies comes in and does a bunch of tests.

I’m actually pretty good at the little eye games, which pleases me and disappoints me at the same time.

“I’m going to put these drops in your eyes,” she says, tilting the electric chair back. “So your vision is going to be blur­ry for about five hours.”

Before I can scream “WHAT!??!” and run out of the room, she’s somehow got my head pinned between her elbows, eyelids pried open so she can dump this poisonous liquid into my eyeballs before I have the chance to blink.

“The doctor will be here in about 10 minutes, once your eyes start to dilate. That’s when your vision might get a lit­tle blurry.”

And then she’s gone. Just like that.

My palms immediately start to sweat and I squirm around in the chair look­ing for a comfortable position. I do not like this idea of having impaired vision one bit. All these creepy scenarios play out in my head where I’m drugged and strapped to a stainless steel operating tables in the basement, needles stuck into the back of my skull.

Desperate for a distraction, I pull my phone out of my purse but I’m not sure what I want to do with it. What, call a friend and say, “Help! The eye doctor is trying to abduct me into a tribe of orange-eyed prowling monsters!”

The doctor comes in and immediate­ly puts me at ease, though I wonder if his easygoing personality is just a trick as he shines various lights in my eyes. I have to force scenarios of brainwashing and hypnosis techniques out of my head.

“Well, your vision is 20/20 and your eyes seem to be tracking fine,” he says, sliding back on his wheelie chair toward the desk and the computer. “There’s not much I can do for you, other than to refer you to a neuro-oph­thalmologist.” He says I might be suppressing vision in one eye, but that’s not really his area of expertise.

He sends me on my mer­ry way with pupils so dilat­ed that walking outside is like having a camera flash go off two inches from my face. I’m wondering why the nurse told me I could drive when I can hardly walk two steps without stumbling, my forearm over my head to shield me from the blinding light.

Not knowing what else to do, I head to the mall since I am in Denver, after all, and being in broad daylight seems to be totally out of the question.

I stumble into the Guess? store and decide to try on every slutty top I can find. I want to show off the new breast prosthesis I’d bought at Vic­toria’s Secret the day before. The Very Sexy seamless bra looks exactly like the boobs that plastic surgeons make, even when you’re not wearing it.

I’m pretty sure my desire to look like a hooker and walk around with lingerie hanging out has something to do with those little stewardess outfits the cocktail waitresses were wearing at the Fly Lounge opening party last Thurs­day night. I still can’t get over the itsy-bitsy “dress” that was so short you could see the bartender’s g­string clad ass every time she leaned over the ice bin, her breasts simultaneously spilling out of her push up bra. It was as if she was trying to fill every glass with her own sex, the guys more drunk from her abundant flesh than from the booze.

“I really like this place!” said one respectable 40-something business owner, yelling a little louder than was necessary.

“I’m still thinking about it,” my friend Bill said when we talked about it the next day.

I’m of the “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” philosophy, and figure I’m proba­bly going to get a lot farther in this world as a power slut with big tits, even if they’re made out of Styrofoam.

“Do you think this skirt is too short?” I ask the Guess? salesgirl, whose lids are so big and heavy that she looks like a cartoon character.

“It’s whatever you think,” she says flatly.

“I think I look sort of like a hooker,” I say, but she doesn’t laugh.

At one point, I’m dressed head to toe in Guess? slutwear and some skinny blonde with a baby walks up to me and asks me if I can find these jeans in her size.

“Oh, I don’t work here,” I say.

Meanwhile, my pupils are so big and black I must look like I’m tripping on acid and my vision is so poor that I think everything looks fabulous on me.

From there, I venture on to the lin­gerie department at Nordstroms where I buy a cartload of lace-this and see­through that just in case Playboy calls and asks me to pose in their “rogue columnists from Aspen” issue.

Some $500 later, I pile into my car and barely manage to find my way back to the highway. People honk and swerve around me as I struggle to move from the fast lane into the right lane where I feel safe. Meanwhile, I’m wondering why I came all this way to see an eye doctor who rendered me blind.

To see or not see: I guess it’s all a mat­ter of perspective.