So, I went to the eye doctor today.
To discuss weight loss strategies. Apparently.
And birth control.
And then maybe even get my eyes checked.
“So, you’re on Depo. Don’t you hate the weight gain?”
“Apple cider vinegar and carcinoma-Cambodia. That will stop it. You can eat anything you want.”
“Don’t ever do the implant in your arm, though. After three years, they have to cut it out. Slice through all the tissue that grows up around it.”
Yeah, that sounds awful…
“Is that the only medicine you’re on? I know it’s all you wrote down, but I wanted to check. Because we have a lot of elderly patients and they sometimes forget to write things down…”
Ok. But I’m not…
“Have you ever had your eyeball pressure checked?”
(Happy that we’re finally focused on my eyes) That’s where you shoot air at my eye, right?
“That’s the old way. We don’t do that anymore. People didn’t like it.”
(Ignoring the second implication that I’m old…) Oh. Good!
“Now we just touch your eyeball.”
I’m sorry, what now?
“It’s pretty quick.”
That doesn’t sound like something we should…
“I may have to touch it a few times, though. Since I don’t have a starting point for you.”
Can we just go back to the old days? Where you just shoot me with an air gun?
So she touched my eyeballs. Several times.
She did numb them up first. With, like, 15 different kinds of eye drops.
Then after all of the inappropriate touching, she threw in some more eye drops. That would only dilate my eyes “a little.”
(Which would later be the reason I had to ask random dude at Kroger gas pumps to type my phone number for me. Because we elderlies like our discounts.)
And then she left to send the optometrist in.
And I was hoping this one wasn’t going to kick off our conversation with weight loss tips.
And she didn’t.
Because she was distracted by my name.
She was excited to finally meet a Sunshine. Because she calls everybody Sunshine. And this time she could say it accurately.
And so already we’re not off to a great start. Because I hate it when people give my name to other random people.
I’d explain that. But really, if you’ve been reading long enough, you should already understand who I am as a person. And no explanation should be necessary.
But fine, eye doctor. At least your first instinct was not to call me fat.
“So it looks like just a little vision loss on the outskirts. Which is really impressive. Usually there’s a lot more from all those birthdays.”
And she damn sure emphasized ALL those birthdays.
And she did it a few times.
And I know I’m a little sensitive about shit these days. And maybe struggling a little bit with how fucking resistant my body has become to giving up fat stores. This bitch is clinging to every fucking calorie I give her like we about to enter a food shortage.
But also? I’m not decrepit.
I’m in my prime.
And I’m about to start challenging every damn person that implies otherwise to a jaunt around North Fucking Mountain.
Which someone dared me to do. Before the bear hunters come out. Because he wants me to be miserable. But also doesn’t want me to die. Because 2020.
“So, you don’t really need glasses. But I see you work in education. How many times has your Canvas course crashed this year?”
And I don’t know why. I don’t know why this prompts my need to over explain myself. But…
Oh I don’t teach. I mean, I do teach. I don’t teach in high school. I don’t have Canvas in high school. The teachers do. But the librarian lets me use her Canvas course. At the high school. Not for teaching though. But I teach college. I use Canvas in college. My Canvas courses there are fine. But in the high school I don’t teach. I do testing and truancy. But I’m still tired. Like the teachers. Can you prescribe meds…?
(Ignoring my drug seeking attempts) “So, you don’t need glasses. But some progressives might help your eyes not feel so tired at the end of the day.”
Progressives. That’s a fancy way of saying bifocals, right?
So, to sum up.
Every fucking medical professional I have encountered this year. Regardless of their specialty. Has diagnosed me as both fat. And old.
No no. It’s fine.
It’s all fine.
Everything’s totally fine.