I should have known better. As soon as I walked in, I had a bad feeling. This was going to turn into a THING. It always does.
“Hi. I just need to get new eyeglasses. I have my old prescription right here.”
“OK, when was your last eye exam?”
“Honestly, I just need new glasses. No need for an exam.”
“Ma’am, I need to know the date of your last eye exam.”
“Um…sigh…five years ago, I think.”
You would have thought I told them I pluck out the eyeballs of orphans every week and used those in lieu of contacts.
Even better yet, I’m lying. It was seven years ago.
“But, I mean, how have you been getting eye contacts?”
You would have thought I told them I also kick baby goats in the groin after stealing little orphan children’s eyeballs.
“Oh, that’s so bad. You shouldn’t do that. I can’t believe 1-800-CONTACTS lets you do that.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell them that getting contacts using an ancient prescription via the Internet is literally one of the easiest things in the world to do. The only thing easier, of course, being ordering a hooker online who also brings you a bagful of heroin and curly fries.
So instead I just shrugged.
And this is why I hate adulting. I’m just so bad at it. See, in my mind, if I need new glasses I should just be able to walk into this strip mall eye place with my ancient prescription, pick out some Zooey Deschanel wannabe frames and haul my adorkable ass home in time for lunch. And, as long as I can still kinda, sorta see with my current prescription, also keep ordering contacts from the Internet until the day I die.
But instead, I get busted by THE MAN and I’m now stuck filling out a mountain of paperwork, answering questions about insurance with a blank, vapid stare and getting the third degree about leaving the space marked PHYSICIAN’S NAME blank.
“You don’t have a regular doctor?”
“No. I have an OB-GYN. Does she count?”
“What do you do when you get sick?”
“Mix Nyquil with wine and shop online for secondhand books.”
And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, I was then informed I was legally obligated (yes, legally obligated in my state) to get professionally fitted for contacts by their office within 90 days of this initial exam. Which seems like a special sort of anal bureaucratic overreach.
“But I just want new glasses.”
“Would you like to schedule that today?”
“Um…how much does that cost?”
“With my insurance?”
“Yeah. I’ll wait.”
“OK, but remember, you only have 90 days and if you try ordering from 1-800-CONTACTS again, they’ll have to verify your prescription through us now, which we can’t do until you get fitted.”
“Son of a …”
See? What did I say? It totally turned into a THING. All those years in school wasted on advanced math classes when I should have been studying up on how to handle stuff that turns into a whole THING without rolling my eyes.
Why do these seemingly simple things always get so complicated? I just want new glasses, but suddenly half my day is gone and my wallet is empty. I just want a teeth cleaning, suddenly I’m scheduling surgery to rip out my wisdom teeth. I just want a regular checkup, suddenly I’m being lectured that mixing Nyquil and wine is not medically advisable and here, call this specialist about that mole that is probably nothing but will most definitely kill you if you don’t see him.
Ugh. These medical professionals and their obsession with my health.
And, let me stop you right there. Because I know what you’re going to say. That now that I’m a mom, it’s my duty to make sure I’m healthy and will live forever so I can smother my grandbabies with love and sausage and slip them $20 when no one is looking even when they’re in their 30’s like my grandma did. I’m well aware of that, which is why I now exercise on a regular basis and eat fruits and vegetables on purpose and not just when they’re garnish for my cocktail.
So, I’m slowly trying to get my adulting act together.
Just don’t rush me. I’ll get fitted for my contacts and find a regular doctor and even schedule a teeth cleaning right after I renew my recently invalid driver’s license. And fix the mysterious clangy noise on the car. And call the handy man about that tiny large-ish leak in the middle of the ceiling. And buy underwear with actual working elastic. And…