99% of the time I wear my contact lenses. I have a long and awesome history with being blind, starting with wearing a disposable eye patch when I was four. Used to cover my good eye so that my lazy eye would perk the fuck up, it meant every night it had to be ripped off my tender face. I am amazed I still have any eyebrow hair left over that eye, and that I let pictures be taken of myself that, of course, provide great comic relief today to everybody but me.
There was a magical period in late elementary school where my eyes decided to cooperate with life and I didn’t need any corrective lenses of any kind, and if I remembered that time at all, it would be called the Magical Era Whereupon Waking Up I Could See. Think about that– a motherfucking miracle if there ever was one. That mystical hazy period ended (maybe I was high on froot roll ups in a cave for my grade 7 year – that would explain a lot) and since my 13th year I have had many pink framed glasses, a couple black ones and most recently contact lenses.
Two week contact lenses that I wear for, on average, four months. The glasses I have now, purchased during another magical time when we had medical insurance, are not as cool as I want them to be. I always get the most fabulous employee working in the Bay to help me pick a pair out but it never ends up being a pair that people stop me and clutch their chests and ask in shock and awe where did I get my third and fourth eyes?
This is also because I never wear them. Maybe before bed, and when I drive Nuv to work in my pj’s and when I feel like being ridiculed by boys I normally call friends. Call me crazy, but I enjoy being able to see things in focus peripherally and downwards – my glasses provide a narrow range of focused things and I’m far from graceful as it is, so yet another good reason to leave them asleep in my bed side drawer. One randomly super thing about being poor sighted: when you travel and have to bathe in group showers, you can pop out the lenses and voila – you don’t have to look at the international assembly of pubic hairs underfoot.
I have a 2$ pair of black plastic flip flops I bought at Target about three years ago. I wore them up to and during the wedding – if there was a pedometer on these shoes, it would be smoking and crying. The day before the wedding, sprinting down the hotel hallway to get something before the rehearsal, the piece that slides between your toes and pushes through to the bottom of the shoe came unattached on one and I lost that shoe and nearly fell and lost all my knee skin on the carpet.
I took them on the Honeymoon as my walking shoes where we devoured the city streets of Tokyo and hot gritty beaches of Maui. I’m pretty sure if your soles are burning at the end of the day, it’s not a compliment to the footwear you sport.
Last night I wore them out to the Biltmore and the exaggerated ‘schpluck’ steps I had to take because of the beer and Elmer's glue cocktails on the floor were awkward and awful. Oh, and one broke again, and all of a sudden it was a game of shoe skateboard so as to not lose it completely during an amazing set of music, and I was the least cool person there, but thank you Jay Reatard for making me feel 16 again and full of something sweet and fiery and irresponsible. I didn’t realize I needed that so badly.