My Bloodshot Eye (or The First Time I Was Ever Dumped)

Inflamed blood vessels surrounded a small off-white lump that protruded from the surface of my right eye.

So what did I do about it?

I ignored it, hoping that all it needed was a few days to clear itself up. I acted like it wasn’t there staring at me every time I crossed a mirror, so I wouldn’t have to take responsibility for my own health. And then Leah saw my bloodshot eye and scolded me.

The next morning I was at the ophthalmologist’s office.

It was sitting in that eye doctor chair facing the screen with its small black (and very blurry) letters that I really confronted why I had ignored my eye lump. I was afraid the doc would tell me to take out my contact lenses and wear glasses for a few days. Now, that may not sounds so horrible to you, but you haven’t been scarred like I’ve been scarred.

It all started when I was 6 years old. Back then, I was quite the ladies man. I had not one girlfriend, I had two. Samantha and Melissa. They would take turns holding my hand at recess. And both of them would give me love letters made with construction paper and crayons.

Life was good.

And then one day, I couldn’t read the chalkboard. A few days after that, I brought my first pair of glasses to show and tell. I proudly displayed the clunky frames that seemed to start at the top of my forehead and drop down to my lips. The suckers were huge, but they helped me see.

They helped me see that Samantha and Melissa were not attracted to boys who wore glasses. I no longer had two girlfriends. I had zero. No one held my hand at recess. No Crayola love letters. The rejection still stings.

My parents let me make the switch to contacts when I started junior high, and I’ve never gone back. My damaged ego can’t handle it. Even now, I’m half convinced Leah would politely suggest I spend more time in Washington if I started wearing glasses regularly.

But what about that off-white lump and my obviously aggravated eye? The eye doctor asked a bunch of questions. He went through the standard “Look up, look down” routine. He even put some dye in there and checked that out, counting to seven for reasons I still don’t understand.

And in the end, he tells me I have a fatty eyeball. Not a fatty gut or even a fatty liver. I have a fat deposit on my eyeball! I guess I shouldn’t make it sound so dramatic. It is actually called a “pinguecula.” They are quite common in people who are out in the sun often. I wouldn’t say that’s me. But then again…

My aversion to glasses goes beyond just the prescription variety. I have also shunned sunglasses much of my life and apparently that decision just bit me in the ass. The doc says the fatty eyeball should return to normal soon if I keep it moist and avoid UV rays. Now I just have to get over my hang-ups and get used to wearing these shades.