Essentially, I'm blind. Without glasses or contacts, my ability to navigate a city street borders on those of a Mr. Magoo or a Stevie Wonder or a Ray Charles, who as you probably heard, is dead. At any rate: lots of stumbling. Lots of forehead bruises. And no, I can't tell you what the third line says. Just a bunch of vaguely angular blobs. I think the first one on the left is an "F" though.
My grandparents always swear that my terrible vision must have come from hours of watching He-Man and Thundercats close enough to touch the screen and, in fact, blame most problems in society on TV, although, of course, they watch "Touched By An Angel" and once, just once, I caught them watching "Maury." But that's neither here nor there.
So today I'm getting my peepers peeped. It's part of the all-important pre-tour ritual wherein you must arrange all your mallards in a neat line, so I'll be taking a short break from work today to have someone I don't know shoot air into my eyeball and say "better like this....or this?" six hundred times in an hour. I'm excited already.
Then there's the aftermath: should I get new glasses? I've always wanted those Malcolm X ones with the rims on top, but they don't sell those most places, so you have to get them at a thrift store, but that means they were probably in someone's pocket when they died and that's just off-putting. Maybe I should get colored contacts: then I could put one gray-blue one in and look like one of those Siberian Huskies. Or Marilyn Manson. Either way: fairly off-putting.
But, let's be honest. I'm cheap. I'm boring. I will not be getting new glasses or contact lenses like the guy in Last Action Hero. Which is probably a smart move. Impulse purchase money should be saved for theremins, fabrege eggs, and magic beans. In fact, suddenly, I want a theremin. I don't think you can get much closer to magic that an instrument you don't touch. Oh, and only a hundred dollars plus tax and I can make my own. Where's my wallet?