Tears were shed

If you ever want to go on a road trip with me, there's something you should know: I can't drive stick.

Oh, I tried once: I was sixteen, and, on the day in question, I was running errands with my dad. We were in a Kohl's parking lot when I felt my blood sugar plummet. I asked if we could get a soda somewhere. Sure, said my dad, but why don't you try driving first? I'm sure there have worse suggestions made then this. I mean, someone had to pitch the concept of Crystal Pepsi, right? But this one had to be up there. Still, I clambered into the Taurus' driver's seat, started her up, and then eased into reverse, slowly backing out into the lane from our parking spot.

At least that was the plan. In reality, I started the engine, moved into reverse, and, panicked about how quickly the car seemed to be moving in the crowded parking lot, hit the brakes. Only, it wasn't the brakes I was hitting, but the gas. FUCK! I yelled, slamming on the not-brakes-but-actually-accelerator again. FUCK! I repeated myself, again hitting what was proving to be the wrong pedal. One last FUCK! escaped my lips before my dad calmly reached over and took the keys out of the ignition. My lesson was over, and, 14 years later, I haven't attempted to repeat it.

All of that should have served as fair warning for me yesterday as I tried to learn just how a person (in my case, me) is supposed to insert and remove contact lenses. I knew it wasn't going to be the easiest lesson. I mean, I have a bit of a thing about eyes. I was never one of those kids who turned their eyelids inside out, and ever since the third grade, when the tip of my pencil broke and it flew into my eye, I have made it a practice to try to keep things out of my eyes, rather than put things in. So, until yesterday, I'd never so much as attempted touching my eye, and here I was, being required by a medical professional (Donnell, my optician for the day) to do it over and over. Ick. Ick. Ick.

If that wasn't hard enough, my appointment was scheduled at 4:20 (heh, heh) p.m. on the Friday of what was proving to be a exhausting week, which itself was on the tail end of another exhausting week. My energy, already at a near-all-time low, was in a freefall when I entered my eye doctor's office. And Donnell, who, it must be said, scheduled my appointment in the first place, didn't seem too happy to have me there either. After confirming around the office that he was the only person there who could do the "teach," he instructed me to wash my hands and meet him at a small station set up in the back of the office.

And so, for the next 1 1/2 hours, we worked at it. Staring at my own reflection in the mirror for that length of time started to make me feel crazy, as I noticed every clogged pore, every errant hair, and a hairdo that was beginning to resemble Cameron Diaz's infamous 'do in There Something About Mary as I reached over my head to grab my eyelid and pull it taut, pushing my bangs skyward in the process. All the while, Donnell noted some challenges: You need to actually touch your eyes to do this. You aren't going to be able to push the contact through your lashes, so you're going to have to open your eyes. You have small eyes so you're really going to have to pull on your eyelashes to keep them open, he said, giving my battered self-esteem another kick in the shins.

Eventually, I got it.

Sort of.

I managed to get the lenses in on my own, but taking them out was yet another challenge. Finally, I popped it one out. It was a fluke, to be sure, but Donnell, taking a not-so-surreptitious look at his watch, was ready to go. After making sure I could insert the lens again, he sent me on my way. My instructions were to wear them for four hours Friday, six or so Saturday and 8-14 on Sunday.

Let me take a moment here to say that my dad tried contacts for the first time a few years ago, and, in an incident that will live in family lore, found himself at the ER, in need of professional help to remove his contacts. Perhaps I should not have mocked him so much for that. Because four hours after I'd had the lenses inserted, I made my first attempts to remove the contacts and quickly discovered I just couldn't do it. Three hours after that, after I punched and kicked our bathroom wall in frustration, after I sent Kyle to my mom's to get a light-up mirror and after Kyle tried to yank the contacts out himself, an effort that led to both of us crumbling into hysterics, I gave my dad a call. Do you still have that suction cup thingy that the ER people used to take out your contacts? I asked. He did not. But, he said, he'd figured out some techniques that he could help me with.

So, that's how I ended up at 11 p.m. last night with Kyle shining a flashlight in my face as my dad hovered over me and plucked the contacts from my eyes. Kyle suggested I give up on this contacts thing altogether. I said I would schedule another "teach" at the eye doctor's. My dad suggested I try again today. And so, against my better wisdom, I'm gonna do just that. But I think I'll have a soda first.