I Stink at Vision

It’s hard being a perfectionist. Especially when you go to the eye doctor. You walk into a stylish room, decorated with expensive frames, and soft music lilting in the background. Sitting in near silence, you find yourself nodding – and drooling – and then…

“ALLISON!” A voice that carries all the authority of a Jonathan Edwards literally destroys your quiet, little world and drags you back to a dark, forboding room, filled with instruments of torture. I exaggerate, you say? Remember the air-puffer? Uh huh. I rest my case. Waiting for that lil’ puff of air is exquisite torture in itself. “Oh man, she’s moving that bright light around…did she hesitate? Crud, she’s going to do it – NOW. No? How ’bout now…now? Hey, maybe they stopped doing that te…”

PUFF. And how about that peripheral vision test? Finding all the “fun little wigglies” is enough to send any perfectionist running from the building. “Was that a wiggly? Man, I bet it was. I bet I failed this test. Prolly only got a B+. I stink at vision.”

Of course, the color blind test is designed to make your feel better about yourself. “I may be blind, but at least I ain’t color blind. I can tell the difference between green and red!! Yes.”

Then, you have puh-lenty of time to wait for the doctor, so naturally, you look around to see what can be seen. Garish posters of horrific eyes conditions leer down at you from every angle, lookin suspiciously like Gollum’s icy, blue eyes. “We sees you, my preciousss.”


It’s actually a relief to finally take out your contacts. Now you’re blind, but at least you can’t see Gollum. And if you can’t see him…he can’t see you. Fair is fair.

But now the really hard part comes. You have to read invisible letters. I promise you, they are not there at all. The doctor makes it all up. “You mean you can’t see this E? How about now?” All he did was switch the light on brighter, but the poor, deluded man is convinced it helps. So, to make himself feel better, he supposedly throws more letters on (in a line – or so he says), and asks you to read them. When you can’t, he hmmm’s and ahhh’s and moves on to the best bit. “What’s better – number one or number two?”

This is specifically calculated to throw every single perfectionist into the worst tailspin possible. Oh man. He gave me a choice. Therefore, there is a right choice and a wrong one.”

“Ummm…two?” Perfectionists hate questions, especially ones in their own voice. But somehow, each answer sounds like you are pleading with the doctor, “Please. Just give it to me. I’m trying. Really.”

“Two looks better?” The voice of reason, which to a perfectionist reads, “Wrong. W-R-O-N-G.”


That’s when the perfectionist slips down to the floor in a puddle of tears, whimpering, “Just give me an F and send me home. I’m a blind failure.”

Oblivious, the sadist doctor makes a note on his chart. “Extremely near-sighted. Blind really. Should see a therapist.”

The rest of the visit goes downhill from there…


About loverofwords20

Allison is an aspiring author, and a lover of words, music, and the Lord Jesus Christ. She is also abysmal at these “about you” things, being unable to think of quirky characteristics at the drop of a hat. However, she enjoys singing randomly and loudly, and laughing hysterically while being caught in the rain.
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