I mentioned that I made a visit to the optometrist Friday. And while sitting in the waiting room, I got the urge. That uncontrollable urge...to write. Believe me, it was worse than those dripping bladder pipe people driving in pipe cars, or the overly-distended balloon-bladder people at the class reunion. I could barely control it.
I started making up mind pictures. Then, like the eighth digit that would have broken the telephone number's back, an idea tried to take hold. My short-term memory cache was full. My mind overflowed like a toilet flushed by a want-ad handyman who had the other urge while breaking up a concrete porch slab. I searched for mental towels to sop up the runoff. The assistant called my name.
There I was, walked through the maze and into a darkened room, directed to sit here, put my chin there, lean my forehead thus, open my eye wide, grab the clicker, squeeze when I saw wavy lines, move to this chair, lean forward, look at the red barn at the end of the lane, don't move, wait here. My overflowing thoughts had suspended themselves. I couldn't dwell on them, what with a woman, man, and different assistant behind me in the dark, performing a different, unconfidential medical test. I ran through my mental picture gallery. At least it was intact.
My assistant (I like the sound of that) called me into the exam room. She directed me to a chair in the corner. After leafing through my folder, she motioned for me to sit in the exam chair. I got up, expecting her to leave and go about her business. She watched me. It was unnerving. Did she think I was incapable of striding three steps to the other seat? Did she expect me to trip? Fear that my gargantuan proportions would not fit between the armrests? Have a premonition that I would make an escape? Anticipate a monetary gratuity? She stared at me until I was ensconced in the hot seat. Then she left and closed the door.
I tried to be good. For all I knew, they had hidden cameras. I conjured up my story images plus overflow. Mistake. More ideas began to surge. The looming contraptions spoke to me. "I'm worth a lot of money. The doctor is still paying for me. Don't touch me. I know you want to. Your fingerprints can be traced. Look at me. My name is Phoroptor. I was deadly in the dinosaur days. I can be reanimated. NO! Look at ME! I'm Topcon. I am privy to state secrets. Maybe you've heard of my cousin, DEFCON. My relatives work deep inside Cheyenne Mountain. Can you keep a secret?"
I may just be channeling Danny in the topiary of the Overlook Hotel (Help me, Dick Halloran!) but I think I saw one of the shining metal monsters move. I turned way. I swung my feet down off the foot-holder platform. I leaned forward. This chair was not built for comfort. Who knew how much longer my wait would be? In the dark room, there had been a debate about who to call back first, the dude already in there who had a 2:45 appointment, or the dude who had a 2:15 appointment but got there at 2:35. They settled on Mr. 2:15. Sucked to be Mr. 2:45, all early-arrivin' for his time slot, taken back ahead of the prima donna belle of the ball, only to be sidelined for his royal majesty.
Normally, I am a goody-two-shoes, and follow directions to a T. Not anymore. My bad two shoes stepped down from that torture rack and walked over to my purse, from which I took my black-covered, $.79, flip-top, spiral mini-notebook. I furtively filled three pages with cryptic scribblage. I was afraid of being caught, of being assumed a secret shopper, of having my materials confiscated. And I don't even read mysteries.
Whew! I felt so much better after relieving myself of those ideas. I climbed back into the exam chair successfully, without supervision. The doctor came in, checked out the windows to my soul, and released me.
Heavy equipment for optometry office: astronomical.
Annual eye exam with insurance: five dollars.
Enough material for a week of blog posts: priceless.