At this point I do a comical jab and what is probably an unhygienic smear, and most time the little guy comes right out. This time it didn't.
I shrugged it off. What's a little searing eyeball-related head pain and gummy vision. I wore my glasses into the world. Used the occasion to complain about something being amiss with my body that was, for once, a socially acceptable topic. Something not-at-all related to urinary tracts or severity of cramping.
Every couple of hours, right around the time it started to feel like someone was acupuncture-ing a tear duct, I would trudge to the bathroom and begin the aforementioned ritual. Unsuccessfully. Then, bored, I'd go back to my life, my left eye reddened like it had been sitting in the dark, alone, shredding Kleenex into snowflake designs and watching “Beaches.”
Finally I decided to play chicken with this disposable lens. Wait it out. I figured that when I woke up in the morning, I'd find a gooey semi-circle hanging half-in, half-out of my lid. A dehydrated slug. In the meantime, I'd ignore the tapioca colored globs that were oozing out of my face.
When I woke, ole lefty was glued shut. I remembered once knowing a woman who had just one eye, the other was cinched closed permanently. A sort of pucker. A face anus. Maybe that would be me. And if it was, I promised myself, I wouldn't be such a bitch about it. Still, I tried to pry open my eye, and wondered how long it would take my eyelashes to grow back.
The contact was still roaming. I dug some more, and quit. Every two hours my friend S would ask about my eye, and I'd shrug. Nada. No news yet, buddy. Finally, when every reddened vein had crawled to the surface, he said:
“Don't you have health insurance?”
Finally there was so much mayonnaise-textured goo dripping from my eyeball that I decided this was probably unhealthy. I mean, if I was cattle, they probably would consider me diseased and refuse to Mc-Anything with my parts. Chuck dripped drops into my left eye, while my right eye gave him a dirty look. I rubbed at my eye, and wondered if we were going to have to call an ambulance. Would this justify the onset of a mysterious limp? Finally, finally, it just kind of came out.
Whatever. My eye doctor agrees that my eyeballs are shaped a little strangely. Flat, he said. And I have an astigmatism – which I prefer to call an a-stigmata-ism. Keep up.