I finally broke down and got myself fitted for contact lenses this week. Because I've finally now accepted the fact that my hairline is starting to recede. And going bald, slightly overweight, and eyeglasses is just one too many strikes against me, I think. I am single, you know.

(Thanks in advance, by the way, for those of you who e-mail me saying, 'But you're not fat at all.' I appreciate it.)

Anyway, the idea of poking around my eye with those little plastic things has never really appealed to me much, which explains why I've waited twenty-six years to try this. I first really realized how rough it was going to be at the eye clinic, when the woman who was supposed to teach me how to put them in was forced to finally give up and make me come back four days later. More than an hour had passed, her patients were getting backed up, I had two bloodshot eyes, and I was getting pretty tired of thrashing around. It was starting to looking like the only successful method of me getting those damn things in was going to involve duct tape and the consumption of large amounts of alcohol, probably more for her than me.

Apparently four days was long enough for her to steel herself into seeing me again. And I noticed that she hadn't scheduled any other appointments for that particular morning.

But recently it's been getting slightly better, now that I've gotten the hang of it a little, and I can now insert and remove the lenses all on my own. However, it's fortunate that I'm going to be moving out to my own place pretty soon. Because I've been forcing myself to wake up at six a.m. every morning, just to make sure that I have enough time to get the stupid things in before I leave for work, an hour and a half later.

And the bloodcurdling screams have been waking up my roommate.

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