About every two years or so, I get a postcard from my eye doctor inviting me to go in for another exam. I don’t know why, but I think I’d rather have a colonoscopy. It makes me nervous, I guess, to have to answer all those questions: “Which is better, number one or number two?” It’s a lot of pressure. What if I answer wrong a couple of times? Will I see upside down and backwards with my new glasses? I’m breaking into a cold sweat just thinking about it.

And, what if the doctor gives me bad news? I’d rather die than lose my vision. It just wouldn’t be the same having the little woman read Uncle Henry’s Trader to me. Also, what’s up with that air puff test? Does that tell them something about my eyes or is my doctor just a mean, perverted, sick little man?

I reluctantly decided to go in for my eye exam last month (actually, Winnie made the appointment and told me I was going). As if I wasn’t feeling enough anxiety, I get to the eye care place to find out that old Dr. A, whom I’ve seen for twenty-five years, is “out sick”. I think “out sick” is doctor-speak for “playing golf”.

Anyway, I was told I’d be seeing Dr. B that day. As it works out, Dr. B is a pretty little girl. I guess she must be in her twenties, but she looks about fifteen to me. Do you know how long it’s been since I was in a darkened room with a young girl asking me which I like better? Now, I was really nervous.

I decided that I should do what any mature man would do in that situation; I’d mess with her. She put that complicated looking gizmo in front of me and started asking me all those difficult questions.

“Which is better Mr. Wright, number one or number two?”

“Can I see them again?”

“Number one or number two?”

“Well, number one looks bigger and number two looks crooked.”

“Does either look clearer?”

“Oh, maybe number one,” I answered.

“Okay, how about number three or number four?” she asked.

“Number two.”

“No, Mr. Wright, that’s not an option. Number three or number four?”

“Can I see them again?”

(Big sigh) “Number three or number four?”

“They look the same to me,”

replied, chuckling inside.

“Okay, Mr. Wright, try this. Number five or number six?”

“Oh, can I go back to number four? I think that looked a little closer than number three.”

“AAGH! Never mind, Mr. Wright. I’ll just shine this bright light in your eyes and that will tell me your prescription.”

“Alright, now we’re talking!”

Later, I felt a little bad about goofing on that nice little girl doctor. Especially after my eyes stayed dilated for eight, long, bright, sunshiny days. Guess Dr. B had the last laugh!

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