Culture No. 8

A year or two ago, I was dubbed the ‘overnight conservator’ for a pair of married relatives who decided to turn back-to-back colonoscopies into some sort of middle-aged date. The medical office thought the whole thing was cute, but I found it bizarre and put it down to the eccentricity of my family and something to maybe be considered for the “50 after 50” List. Dinner and a movie may lack certain points for creativity, but it also lacks…scopes.

So yesterday, true to form, I went ahead and broke my own rule. No colonoscopies were involved – thank goodness we’re still a few decades early for that – but Bert and I most definitely spent a romantic afternoon at the optometrist’s office. Ooohhh yeah…

(Perhaps I should preface this whole story with the fact that I am currently in the middle of a migraine marathon. I thought bright lights and loud noises were bad? Ugh. Try forced dilation and an optic nerve triathlon. It helps to have a friend in the waiting room to distract from the too-loud TV playing “Dennis the Menace” reruns. [Question: Since when did Nick at Night go daytime?] Unnamed Relatives: Now I understand.)

Bert came home at lunchtime and off to the Opto’s we went. His appointment was first and mine followed. Migraine be darned, somehow I passed the torturous obstacle course of eye exercises ranging from the standard charts to 3-D illusions and color-blindness tests. (The color test was a first for me. Perhaps it was a comment on my wardrobe choice?) The best/least painful part was when the nurse and I discovered we were both sans thyroid and had an awesome chat about fun stories to explain our scars. (Her fav? A gang fight.) Thyroidectomies are all the rage!

Next up was the Opto. In the grand tradition of every eye doctor I’ve ever visited, he was fun, quirky, and had crazy-awesome, Gene Wilder-esque hair. (Bert and I are both considering career changes.) As always, I managed a good shock with the terrible condition of my eyes: a shock made even more incredible because, as bad as he thought Bert’s eyes were, mine were worse. (It’s official, folks. Our children will be moles.) Happily, the Opto pronounced my eyes had not degenerated since my last check-up, dropped in the dreaded dilation drops, and sent me back out to the waiting room to chill with the huz.

Bert was a few minutes ahead of me in the dilation department, which provided a welcome distraction as his eyes refused to dilate at equal speeds (i.e. One pupil was HUGE and one was normal. In his own words, “I look like one of those husky dogs…” Regretfully, I have no photographic evidence as – much to his relief – I forgot my camera at home.) Several of Dennis’ hijinks later, we both passed our dilation tests, got fitted with some new fancy contacts for our varying degrees of astigmatism, and drove home for a fun afternoon of (quiet and dark) Netflix-hopping. So maybe it wasn’t our most exciting date ever, but you know what? The insurance company doesn’t pay for dinners and movies. I’ll take what I can get.