Ol’ Robbo is a happy camper this rainy Saturday afternoon because I finally got around to getting a new pair of contact lenses and ran over to pick them up this morning.  My old ones were about two and a half years old and beginning to be something of a strain.  (I still stand by hard, gas-permeables.  Tried the disposables and just don’t like ’em.)

Further, the right one of my old set for some reason doesn’t have the little black dot demarking it as such, and over the past few weeks I’ve been increasingly paranoid that I might have mixed up which one goes in which eye.  (Try standing on a street corner some time and staring off into the distance first through one eye and then through the other, and see what kind of looks it gets you from people passing by.)  Fortunately, the new one is properly marked, so that’s one less thing Ol’ Robbo needs worry about.

(Yes, this is not exactly scintillating blog material, but when you’re as blind as I am, these things are of immense importance.)

I always go to a Visionworks handily located about 15 minutes from Port Swiller Manor.  I don’t know if it’s corporate policy or just personality, but the manager there is very, very aggressive about sales.  He sits like an old spider in the corner and is constantly reminding his staff not to forget to try and get people to buy an extra set of frames or this or that special kind of lens.  My prescription has changed only slightly since my last eye exam and I really only wear my glasses for an hour or two in the evening, so I didn’t bother getting a new pair this time.  When I politely declined multiple offers, the fellah looked downright offended.

Speaking of eye exam, I did that thing where they take digital pictures of your cornea (for things like glaucoma, I believe).  The doc was quite pleased with the results.  “Your eyes are in great shape,” he said. “Your only problem is you can’t see.”

Gee, thanks.