I went to the eye doctor today for the first time since May 2007.
Did you know you are supposed to go every year?
I learned: I suck at having my “eye pressure” measured. I start blinking like my eyelids are possessed by angry hummingbird wings. I sit on my palms and fidget and break out into a sweat and bite my lip and crinkle my nose and my eyes start watering before the doctor even puts their finger on the *puff* button. And that’s all it is *puff*
I learned: Having numb eyeballs is a crazy sensation. I kinda like it.
I learned: I only need half of the normal dose of stuff they use to dilate people’s eyes because I have abnormally large pupils.
I learned: You should bring sunglasses with you to assist with driving home after visiting the eye doctor.
I learned: I am an excellent candidate for laser eye surgery.
I learned: I can still keep my frames as “vanity glasses” for certain outfits even if I do get my vision surgically repaired.
I have not learned: HOW LONG IT TAKES FOR MY PUPILS TO GO BACK TO NORMAL! It’s been 6 hours and look, I’m still crazy eyes, don’t trip and fall into my pupils!
More to come on laser eye surgery later. I certainly don’t like needing my glasses, but I also like having the option of taking them off and letting the world assume a soft and fuzzy glow.
After the eye doctor, I took my beagle for a hike at the supply ponds. It was quiet, cold, the perfect time to think.
I’m supposed to be writing a life plan. And it’s not happening….
So instead of a plan, I’m going to start with a list of things I want to do in life:
1. Go to Ireland and study poetry and romance and dreamers and leaders and revolutions and passions and sheep herding and Italian and painting and astronomy. Live on “white coffee” and stew and whiskey and love.
2. Study at Colorado State University and earn my doctorate in veterinary medicine and then live in Colorado or Montana or Oregon or Washington State or that little corner of Idaho. Live under a band of stars. Plant a field of sunflowers – and wake up in it on dewy summer mornings. Sip lemonade on a wraparound veranda and watch the sunset.
3. Fly down to Central America and work/walk/hitchhike my way back – meet people – hear their stories and put them in my book, “An Interview with the Americas” – and if I find a photographer friend, hire him on for adventure and re-name my book “An Illustrated Interview with the Americas.” Show everyone just how human we all truly are. Prove that love and heartbreak and joy and fear and passion cross all cultures.
4. Join the Peace Corps – No, scrap that… it’s cliched and not actually my style. I should just go somewhere that people need help and find out how to help them, since I really don’t think “organizations” are the best thing for people like me. Too much structure. *twitch* *tweak**twitch*
5. Learn survival skills. Prove them to myself living off The Grid for at least a year or two on Vancouver Island. Or die trying.
6. Live in Alaska. Go out on a fishing boat in the bearing sea. Breed sled dogs. Race them!
7. Go to Antarctica.
8. Be a nanny in Germany or France or Poland – and learn how to make strudel and how to milk goats!
9. Move to New Orleans and open up a Speak-Easy themed bar with live jazz music every night and sawdust on the floor and my own special blend of moonshine served out of a claw-footed bath tub. Wear long beads and head dresses and pantyhose with the seam that runs up the back of my leg every day to work. Know my customers. Fix good drinks. Keep PBR on tap and sell it for a buck. Never sell cheap whiskey.
10. Learn how to sail, like tack and whatever against the winds. Steal a boat and live amongst a string of tropical isles. And just take some time for me.
11. Get good at gardening. Really good. Like grow 85% of my own vegetables kind of good. Be someone who only eats the fruit/veggies that are in season. Learn how to cook all kinds of squash – not just the kind you douse with brown sugar and maple syrup.
12. Learn how to charm bees. Stop being afraid of bees. Make peace with bees and live in honey.
13. Write- write truly amazing stories – write the kind of poetry that invades and captivates the soul. Lock myself away in an old lighthouse and write about the sailors of old and their broken promises. Cross the mountain passes and write of the settlers and their trials. Write of the Indians. Write of the Spaniards and the French and the earliest and poorest of immigrants that built America. Write of Vikings and Kings and Gods and Legends. Write of love and loss and the human experience. Write hope. Write hopelessness. Write the inter-connectivity of our species.Write the advice column for the New York Times – or the local paper. Write horoscopes. Write speeches. Write the wrongs in the world – in hopes to right them.