I went to the eye doctor today for the first time in nine years. Eye doctor offices have changed a lot since the last time I passed the Craftsman tools and plaid shirts to get to the optometrist department at Sears. Walking into the Eclectic Eye in Midtown is like walking into a nightclub in South Beach with its black-clad staff, clean open spaces and thumpy techno music. I half expected for my shorts and T-shirt to get the once over and then be escorted from the premises with all the other tragically unhip. But the good Dr. Weinberg and his team of attractive Igors did a wonderful job taking care of and doing a number on me once they got me into their little room with all its evil devices. There were pupils dilated, my chin and forehead were forced into place and air forced into my eyeballs, and bright lights shined into my irises. And then there were the questions: Is this better than this? Is this clearer? Can you read the top line? Second line? The whole situation, from the iron maiden they had me sit in to administer the exam to the interrogation, was like the Spanish Inquisition, if the Inquisition had taken place in a Miami night club.
All went well, though. No glaucoma, no macular degeneration, no blindness. I currently have the first pair of contact lenses I've ever had on and a pair of stylish new frames on the way. I know I shouldn't wait so long to visit the doctor and I should have regular exams, and I know there are those of you who think that my priority should be more urologist than optometrist, but today was the day I tended to my eyeballs.
Maybe next time I'll take The Quartet for their first exams, if they can get past the velvet rope, and see how they like being questioned repeatedly with a white light shining in their eyes while trying to dance to a funky beat.