8am at the optometrist's.

I love my optometrist. He's still the only one I've visited, mostly because I was still covered by my parents until I left for Japan. (Oh dependent student status, you were so good to me.) I still remember the opticians by name, the JA woman who always talks about her daughters and how wonderful they are, and the other woman with the little bitty dogs. Err, they're less obnoxious than they sound. I promise.

So this morning I had my eyes checked, and I was about to stick my face on the...uhm...eye thing with all the dials for changing the lenses...fine, an optical refractor. A phoropter. This thing:

(Except a lot more beige and friendly looking.)

So I lean in, and even without my glasses on, I notice a greasy smear of foundation where you rest your cheek. (There was some mascara too.) I point it out to my optometrist, and he apologizes. The woman who usually takes care of that is out sick...it was probably one of the last patients yesterday...you never know what you can get these days, with our insecure borders...some people have tuberculosis and they keep crossing the border anyway and sometimes they haven't finished treatment and they're all over the place...in our schools and it's terrible, those insecure borders.

Like whoa. Like whoa. It was surreal, like having that sort of conversation with family. And yes, I've got family members like that too. My sister and I cynically decided that's what happens when you get old. You get racist. It's like getting a bad rash, it makes you all sorts of illogical and crazy. And yeah, I understand the whole mental crystallization thing, how it's harder to adapt when you get older...but still. Not exactly shocking, but still jarring. I've been seeing this guy (and his wife, also an optometrist) for...over twenty years. They still have this ratty, dusty clown on a swing up in the corner.

This is turning into a nostalgia post, so I'll save that for later. Just wanted to share my morning.