Frumpy Mom: I had knives stuck in my eyes
Yesterday, I let a gorgeous man stick knives in my eyes. Well, technically only in my left eye.
Some of you have already guessed what I’m talking about. Yes, even though in my mind I’m only 27 years old, I had cataract surgery, which is where a hunky doctor (at least in my case) removes the old funky lens of your eye and put in a new, improved one.
The purpose of the eye lens is to take in the light beams and refract them into your retina, starting the journey to sight.
Having a cataract on your lens is like peering through a dirty car windshield, and I usually have both, (although I do wash my car at least once a year whether it needs it or not.)
Unfortunately, there’s no way to wash away cataracts, so you need medical treatment.
When I went to see an ophthalmologist, I just wanted an eye exam. I had no intention of signing up for surgery. But, then, I didn’t expect him to be movie star handsome.
And just like those charming-but-aggressive timeshare salesmen, Mr. Hunky Doctor rapidly convinced me that surgery was the way to go.
I can’t say whether I was blinded (no pun intended) by his extreme good looks, but let’s face it: When an attractive person is trying to convince you of something, you tend to turn into a big bowl of putty.
Yes, you do. Don’t deny it.
Sadly, I will never have this effect on anyone, but I am fairly persuasive, having taken years of debate in school and, then, as an adult, spent 40 years as a newspaper reporter trying to persuade people to tell me exactly how they embezzled that money.
Anyway, Mr. Hunky Doctor did convince me that it was in my best interest to get the surgery, pointing out that my growing night blindness, rotten peripheral vision and other driving problems would be instantly eliminated.
Medicare would pay the whole thing, since I wasn’t going to shell out the extra money for the fancy upgraded lenses, which would have cost $8,000.
It all sounded pretty darn appealing to me, especially because I’ve always considered myself an excellent driver. At one point, I even had a chauffeur’s license.
Lately, though, my young adult kids have started to amuse themselves by cruelly insulting my driving. When we were on Maui in February, Curly Girl even insisted on doing all the driving on the scenic Road to Hana, allegedly because she likes to drive.
I guess I must be getting decrepit, because I let her, and just enjoyed being a passenger on this spectacularly beautiful journey.
But here’s the thing about cataract surgery: It’s hard to maintain your personal, private fiction that you’re 27 years old when your stupid elderly eyes are betraying you.
As some of you know, I’ve been refusing to admit that I was born back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I will not get cosmetic surgery, period. I know too many people who tried to look more youthful but ended up looking like fashion victims instead.
You know what I’m talking about. Sometimes it’s almost painful to see. I was once covering an event honoring a zillionaire and his wife. I will give him credit for keeping his original wife instead of trading her in on a younger model. But she’d had so much work done on her face that I wanted to pull her aside and say, “Honey, just stop now. Please. Stop.”
I managed to control this impulse, but I still feel it from time to time, especially in affluent communities where there seems to be an epidemic.
After my hair fell out from chemotherapy, it grew back in gray, which was bizarre because it had been red for decades. I tried the whole “going gray” thing, but I kept having irresistible urges to crochet doilies, bake lemon squares and complain nonstop about my ailments.
So I started dying the hair red again and got a hip new hairstyle, and the urges went away. Whew. 27 again.
It’s only been one day since Mr. Hunky put in my new lens, and I must say I can already see much better, especially out of the eye that was always the “bad” one.
That vision is now crystal clear. I’ll go back next month to have the “good” eye done.
The nice thing about cataract surgery is that it’s not actually visible, so no one has to know that you had it because you’re as old as dirt.
So please don’t tell anyone. It’s our little secret.