My Trip to the Eye Doctor

I go to my eye doctor today. It irritates me off the bat because I don't want to have all the tests run that they require; I just want my eye exam so that I can renew my contact lens prescription. But I get to see the same eye doctor I grew up with today so I'm feeling more jovial than I might otherwise. The exam is unextraordinary--nothing of note happened. But then I was dropped off with one of the opticians? Nurses? Ladies who work up front to order my contacts and pay.

She sits down slowly and sort of looks through the folder. Her pace isn't what one might describe as quick. After a minute or two she says she'll be right back; she needs to ask the doctor something. She walks away and a couple with two kids walk up to another lady. All four are dirty, dressed in various stages of camouflage, and wearing footwear that's seen better days. The woman says she would like for her kids to have an eye exam. The nurse/optician/lady replies that there are no walk-ins today. At this point the little girl starts screaming something insensible about wanting her mother. The mother is standing no more than five feet from her. The lady asks if the mother wants an appointment and the mother steps closer to make one. The little boy joins the little girl in screaming now and the father is something beyond ineffectual. Eventually the little girl is removed from the cart and given to her mother. This sets the little boy off into a full fledged tantrum, complete with kicking and screaming the likes of which haven't been heard since the fat lady broke the glass in the Memorex commercial. Finally the woman taking care of me comes back.

Now, there are a couple of rules when it comes to getting a PhD in Las Vegas. Rule #1) Never tell people you are getting a PhD. They think you're a snob and try to make lame "I don't know English" jokes. Rule #2) (and this one is by far more important) Never tell people you live in Las Vegas. Every time--EVERY TIME--they will want to know all about it and you PLUS tell you how much they want to go there/enjoyed being there/will go back again and all the details of their trip including family or friends that have also gone there/lived there/want to go there. I forgot this rule. I knew better, but I still forgot the rule. That is why my trip went from unextraordinary to so very much worse.

She started to badger me about making an appointment for a year from now and I just wanted to make it stop. "I'm from Las Vegas" I blurted and immediately regretted it as soon as I saw the glint in her eye. From that point on I learned about her uncle that used to live out there whom her mother thinks was part of the mafia. This uncle paid for a cousin who is in jail for drug use to fly on a special plane with four guards to her grandfather's funeral. I learned about her and her husband's TWO honeymoons and how much they love Niagra Falls, but that I shouldn't do my hair if I visit because you're just wet all the time. I learned how their other honeymoon was to San Diego, which she also loves, but there were gay couples kissing on the beach and she didn't think straight couples should do that either because there were families out there.

At this point I really, REALLY, wanted to interject and ask if the gay couples were sodomizing each other in public since kissing has yet to aversely affect a child, but I was still clinging to basic rules of etiquette.

I learned that another nurse saw two girls kissing in Walmart and wasn't in a shame her husband wasn't there to see it. I learned that on the Niagra Falls honeymoon they drove up? down? Superior Road and stopped at every waterfall along the way. Maybe that was the trip to Canada. I learned about their trip to Canada too.

Eventually--a solid twenty minutes later--I knew drastic measures needed to be taken before the last vestiges of my control slipped away. I texted my mother blatantly and openly in front of the talking lady opting for minor rudeness versus extreme rudeness in an effort to extract myself from the situation. I might have felt bad about it, but the other option was me screaming, much like the little boy and little girl of twenty minutes prior, "I don't care about you and your life!" at the top of my lungs. Under the circumstances a text message seemed the way to go.

That was my trip to the eye doctor. The moral of this story: whenever you feel the need to share details about yourself with a stranger don't. Always remember--nobody cares.

I thank you.