When I was in third grade, my friend Wendy got new glasses. About one week later, I looked over and realized I couldn’t make out the dates on the class calendar anymore. Of course, they all thought I was faking so that I could match Wendy, but I showed ‘em – I failed that eye exam with precision and accuracy, and was thus awarded my new horribly ugly eyeglasses that I chose because Lucy from Charlie Brown was etched into the side.

I’ve gotten progressively worse since then. Once I got contacts in high school, I kissed the glasses goodbye and wore contact lenses with devotion that rivaled Travolta’s commitment to Scientology.

When I got extended-wear lenses, it was like Eyeball Eden. I would pop those suckers in and not take them out for months. In the meantime, I got more and more nearsighted. Now, I’m at the point where without my lenses, I could use a Seeing Eye Bat, and still be better off.

So I had my appointment last week, and my surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. My eye doctor is very funny. Apparently, I’m blessed with “thick-ass corneas,” which should make the procedure even easier. I’m not scared right now, but I’m sure once I plop my butt in that chair tomorrow, it’ll be a whole new story.

I had some humorous anecdotes about the week I’ve spent wearing glasses, after having been a slave to contacts for 10 years. But it’s Two Talk Show Tuesday today, and no surprise, I’m horribly behind. So they’ll have to wait until Thursday.

If I survive the surgery, that is.

Dum Dum DUUUUUMMMMM! (Dramatic soap opera segue. Wait, you got that? Never mind then.)