I Can See Clearly Now

Fresh contacts are stunning. Colors have never been this bright before; edges never so sharp, my hair so big and shiny and wonderful! Yeah, except for that last bit.

Remember the sad dark days before disposable contact lenses? I remember my first pair. I was twelve and I went to the ophthalmologist all by myself (for some very strange reason) there on Finchly Road. I couldn't insert them for the life of me. It took me an hour and the nurse got so fed up with me she had to leave the room. That night I couldn't get them out. Mom held down my eyelids while Dad stabbed his fingers in my eyes and popped them out. I got stern lectures on sanitation and not losing them since they were so expensive. These days I buy them in bulk and throw them away! I don't own a bottle of saline solution and I don't even know if they sell that de-calcification stuff (remember how much it burns when you squirt that directly into your eyes instead of the lubricating eye drops!) anymore.

I finally got disposable contacts because I broke up with my boyfriend and broke two pairs of specs by falling asleep in them. He always used to take them off when I fell asleep reading (and I was in graduate school, so this happened a LOT) and put them safely in their case. After I moved out, nobody took them off anymore and I smashed them on desks or rolled over on them sleeping in my bed, and other really smart things like that. So, I gave up my daily wear contacts and my specs and started with the nonstop wearable contacts. And a fresh pair are a lovely treat.

Up in the choir stalls on Sunday, MS asked me to make one of our baritones a character in my next story. Since I'm largely incapable of writing about anybody I haven't fallen in love with a little, this is a particular challenge. This man is in his 60s, snorts and snarfs like a warthog (I'm just assuming that warthogs make despicable noises to match their name), is gay, and lives with his mother. I told MS that I couldn't do it (this conversation is all happening DURING THE SERVICE, mind you) due to my handicap, and she was disappointed. I can't bear to see MS disappointed, so I'm having a go. In my story this man is the 60 year unrequited and oblivious love interest of a spinster parishioner lady. So, you see, I am not overcoming my handicap at all.

It was a strange Sunday. One soprano ran out crying, a baritone snuck in late, another baritone snuck out to see what was wrong with the soprano (his wife), two sopranos and an alto slipped out after the offertory, one alto crossed the aisle to the other side of the choir (most of the missing people had left just one side in a really obvious way that would have been problematic for the final procession), and a couple of us had to juggle the crying soprano's folder and hymnal in that procession (I'm paranoid about dropping my OWN hymnal when I process, so carrying a second frazzled me). Oh, and somewhere in there the soprano who hates me gave me a big smile and wink from across the aisle, mysteriously.

I applied for a second full-time teaching job today. This one is at the school where I adjunct. I don't know how in the world I could handle FIVE CLASSES per semester (and doesn't that just seem UNGODLY!), but I really want to get out of libraries (again). It would be different if I were a reference librarian or public services librarian, but, no, I fell into an extra-specialty in academic libraries. I hate being an expert. I think I'd be happier going back to school. There I'd only have to teach three classes a year. That would be better. And more poverty-stricken. With bad health insurance. Anyway, there's no sense in making this decision until they offer me the job, and they can't do that unless I apply, so...

I think my humidifier is stinky. I think I'm going to go give it a bath.