The good news is that my pupils are almost back to the same size. The bad news is that it took me a $30 co-pay and a lot of freaking out to learn that you really shouldn’t douse one of your contacts in the kind of eye drops that say “Remove contact lenses before using.”
I guess I sort of thought all clear-colored, eye-related solutions were the same? And I’d forgotten about that one time I ran out of contact solution and soaked my contacts in eye drops all night, which made my eyes into giant fireballs, but I guess they were fireballs of the same size?
Anyway, this morning I put my contacts in, went to Zumba at the gym, impressed myself with how well I could shake my ass, was not impressed by the actual shakiness of my ass, took a shower and—when I looked in the mirror to put eye shadow on—saw that my left pupil looked like Puss in Boots when he goes all big-eyed:
…and my right pupil was more like Puss in Boots as seductive hero.
Except he wouldn’t be seductive or adorable if he was all lopsided and crazy-eyed. I literally had crazy-eye!
I panicked, as per usual, and called my dad (he’s an optical engineer—maybe he knew about these things? He didn’t, but he told me not to panic, as per usual). Then I made an appointment at the optometrist’s office below mine, which seemed more convenient and friendly than the ER. At this point I was thinking maybe the eye drops were at fault, but my brain was also shouting, You might have a brain tumor! I might have a me-tumor!
Dr. Gording shined some lights in my eyes, said he didn’t see any signs of inflammation and concluded the drops were to blame. “You’re a little young for a stroke,” he said, sort of as a joke, but my brain was like, Aubrey Plaza! Aubrey Plaza!
On Marc Maron’s comedian-interview podcast WTF—which AK got me addicted to, to the point where I kind of want to stake out his house because he talks about our exact couple-block radius of Highland Park all the time—Aubrey Plaza of Parks and Rec fame talked about how she had a stroke when she was twenty!
But I haven’t lost speech or movement, just another little shred of sanity, so I guess I’m good. Dammit, I do all the things you’re supposed to do. I floss. I buckle up. I paint my nails in a well ventilated area. You’d think that a moment of rebellion might do me good. Next time I’m going to abuse a drug, I guess I’ll go find some ecstasy or something, and then at least I’ll have some fun in exchange for my crazy-eye.*
*Note to the adoption agency social workers and/or potential birthparents who I’m pretending/hoping are now part of my reading audience: I’m kidding. I don’t do drugs. But also, I don’t judge people who do, and a baby born with a smidge of weed in his or her system would probably just be really mellow, right?