So I’m getting LASIK.
Before going on, I should point out that ‘things happening to my eyes’ ranks second only to ‘enclosed spaces with no hope of escape’ in my personal Horror Hall of Fame and Screaming. I know Freud said such fears were castration metaphors*, but, one, I don’t have anything to castrate, and, two, does it really have to be a fear of anything other than having your eyes explode? That seems like enough to me.
And yet I am going to allow a stranger to cut open my eyes, shoot a laser into them, and then fold the cut-off piece back into place.**
And I’m going to pay for this. Though, after reading that description, I’m really trying to remember why.
Oh, right. Here are the reasons. I wrote them down in case I forgot.
1. Convenience. The more active I get—and I’ve gotten more active as I’ve gotten older, which is a nice surprise—the more glasses annoy me. I might as well strap clouds directly to my eyeballs when I’m running in the rain or the cold. And then there’s swimming, and hiking, and camping, and fencing, and a hundred other things. Not to mention that working on the computer with glasses is like watching a JJ Abrams movie: lens flare everywhere.
Before anyone suggests contacts, I’ve tried. Wearing contacts for me is like being stabbed in the eyes for twelve hours a day. So, one big stab is a fair trade.
2. Vanity. God damn it, I look better without glasses. I have very wide, very expressive eyes. A friend once remarked that, should I ever become a ninja***, the traditional mask would do nothing to disguise me. Anyone I was fighting would recognize me in a heartbeat. The conversation would go like this:
Opponent: Hey, I know you.
Me: …No, you don’t.
Opponent: Yeah, I do. You’re that writer chick. Steph something.
Me: …No, I’m not.
Opponent: You totally are. I recognized your eyes. Yeah, like the way they’re narrowing at me right now.
Me: You brought this on yourself. *Bludgeons opponent to death with a toaster oven*
I’ll admit, I’m not sure how LASIK is going to help with this, but at least I won’t have to worry about finding a mask that allows for glasses.
3. Origin Story. It’s a giant laser, right? And there’s a lab and stuff. A routine procedure. A normal**** woman…
…I figure there’s, like, a one percent chance I’ll come out of this with superpowers. And with that possibility, I just have to know.
Don’t worry. If it works, you’ll know.
You’ll see it on the news.
*Of course, so was everything else.
**I watched a lot of videos on the procedure on the assumption that they would help with the gut-wrenching anxiety. I was wrong.
***Most of my friends assume that I’m going to someday need training to fulfill my goal of justice and/or world domination.
***Will you accept normal-ish?