Add-on: "8.50 & 6.50..."

I feel the smooth, cold surface on my face before I officially rest my eyes in the correct place. It’s a familiar feeling, one that I’ve been aware of since I was about four. I’m not even sure what this thing is called. Justin Timberlake recently made it look glamorous by wearing a suit while standing behind one like I am now. I’m smarter than that – I don’t find it glamorous at all.

After I slightly settle my neck to a less-uncomfortable position, I blink to clear the fuzziness. It doesn’t go away.

            “Okay, Samantha. Tell me which line you think is the clearest and read the letters to me,” says my long-time optometrist, Dr. Davis.

            I squint my eyes and stare at the square of light ahead of me with tiny dots on it. Is that a G or a D? Did it just change to an O?

“Honestly…” I hesitate, “barely even the top one.”

            She pauses. I hear scribbles on a notepad. I was right – I’m getting worse again. At the ripe age of twenty-two, my vision is blurring. The countdown (or countup, if you have my visionary genes) begins to seal my assumptions.

“One or two?”

“Two.”

“Two or three?”

“Three.”

“Three or four?”

“Four.”

“Four or five?”

“Five.”

“Five or six?”

I pause. I pretend I need to see the lens comparisons again. I don’t.

“Six.”

It’s a number game I’m not too fond of. I’m watching my eyes grow older as I stay here, needing them to keep it together. Needing them for late-night papers, relaxed readings, driving home for the weekend, appreciating my sisters dance routines, paint a picture, deciding what to wear. The list goes on.

 We continue until I have a new, clear view in front of me. LASIK eye surgery is surely not in my future now and as the examination that I have memorized concludes, Dr. Davis sighs my confirmation.

            She gets up and rounds the corner to a long hallway. “Pop out your contacts, I’ll get you new, much stronger ‘eyeballs.’”

            If only I was born with different ones in the first place.