So I went in for my second post-op visit, all AGOG at how well I can see. Dr. Miller told me that the lenses in my eyeballs are the same lenses used in the Hubble Telescope so then I said, "No wonder I can see Mars from my house."
I know. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I was so proud of myself for making this little joke that I relived the moment by telling it some more. Here. There. Here again. There again. It's like I was my own highlight film. Yay, me!
Anyhoo, when my dad called last night I did my "I can see Mars" shtick, to which Geoffrey, who was taking a bath in the next room, shouted, "DID YOU TELL YOUR DAD THAT'S THE TWENTIETH TIME YOU'VE TOLD THAT JOKE TODAY?"
Okay. Please refer to today's title. I assume you know the answer now.
Showing posts with label eye surgery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eye surgery. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
How to Depress Yourself
. . . in case you need lessons.
Ken broke out the home movies over the weekend, and here's the thing I noticed most this time around: how badly I've dressed over the years. Of course we always think that about ourselves--look at the hair! look at those shoes!--but at least most of you can take comfort in the fact that everyone else looked the same way and that even though it was the 80's, you were actually pretty cute.
The same cannot be said about me. The unvarnished truth is that at best I was indifferently dressed. At worst, I was aggressively appalling. Part of it, I realized, is that I've always felt HUGE--like a Winnebago in an parking lot full of Mini Coopers. And my response to that was to dress myself in tents--big flow-y flappy shirts and jumpers--apparently in the hopes of camouflaging myself. Also, apparently I was color blind.
But looking back I realize I was never as big as I thought I was. And even if I had been, fitted (nay, even STRETCHY) clothes, would have looked so, so mUCH better than the camping gear I called clothing.
Watching the last 15 minutes of the first SEX AND THE CITY movie on TV yesterday while recovering from eye surgery didn't help. Why didn't I get that gene that made me want to wear expensive shoes and birds on my head, she laments. My mom had it in spades. Did she hog the shoe gene and not leave any of it for me?
Ken broke out the home movies over the weekend, and here's the thing I noticed most this time around: how badly I've dressed over the years. Of course we always think that about ourselves--look at the hair! look at those shoes!--but at least most of you can take comfort in the fact that everyone else looked the same way and that even though it was the 80's, you were actually pretty cute.
The same cannot be said about me. The unvarnished truth is that at best I was indifferently dressed. At worst, I was aggressively appalling. Part of it, I realized, is that I've always felt HUGE--like a Winnebago in an parking lot full of Mini Coopers. And my response to that was to dress myself in tents--big flow-y flappy shirts and jumpers--apparently in the hopes of camouflaging myself. Also, apparently I was color blind.
But looking back I realize I was never as big as I thought I was. And even if I had been, fitted (nay, even STRETCHY) clothes, would have looked so, so mUCH better than the camping gear I called clothing.
Watching the last 15 minutes of the first SEX AND THE CITY movie on TV yesterday while recovering from eye surgery didn't help. Why didn't I get that gene that made me want to wear expensive shoes and birds on my head, she laments. My mom had it in spades. Did she hog the shoe gene and not leave any of it for me?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)