Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum

Trapped at the ophthalmologist’s today, taking every bizarre eye test known to man.

It’s only due to Charles Schulz that I know what an ophthalmologist does. I always think of Linus and his new glasses, saying “My ophthalmologist says this and my ophthalmologists thinks that,” and Sally in her eye patch, educating the other kids about “lazy eye.”

I did get to wear an eye patch, although I forgot to say “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum” because the test itself was so freaking weird. You stare into a big white bowl and click a button whenever a light flashes. Simple enough, but you must also stare at an orange dot without flinching and you can only blink while clicking the button.

So I stared and blinked and clicked at anything that looked remotely like a light flash for what seemed like two years. Then the sadist technician numbed my eyes and stuck long paper strips in them to measure tear production. Then she left. So I sat there alone, head tilted back, tears pouring out, wondering if eyes were all that important anyway.

The good news was that my eyes are fine, just a little dry. All I have to do is put my entire life on hold and sit around putting drops in my eyes all day. Fine, I thought, just get me out of here.

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