A couple of days ago, I waxed poetically complained about my mutant eye disease. I’m happy to say that I simply have a mild (though mysteriously-obtained) eyelid infection, and I should be back to overusing eyeliner in no time!
“That’s good. You looked like Quasimodo, but without the hump.” – My mom
The upside to this appointment (aside from the fact that my eye is not going to spontaneously fall out of my head), is that my eye doctor paid me a lovely compliment. He took note of the fact that my toenail polish, shirt, and purse all (unintentionally) match today, and told me I “looked fancy.”
I fluttered my crusty and swollen eyelid at him in response.
The downside to this appointment was entering the exam room and feeling like I’d crossed the threshold into my own personal torture chamber. It was like someone had asked me to write down my least favorite things in the world, and then charged me an insurance copay to experience them. Granted, the room didn’t include knives and chains and fire, so it wasn’t THAT torturous. It was more of a modest torture chamber. You know, as opposed to a severe one.
First of all, directly across from the exam chair, there hangs a huge, floor-to-ceiling mirror. Therefore, as a I sat in the chair, I was forced to look in this mirror and witness what my hips and thighs look like when I’m sitting. Everything just sort of….spreads out.
Perturbed by the sight, I started adjusting my sitting positions and leg placements in order to get the most attractive angle.
To add insult to injury, the office radio started playing the song, “Maria” by Brooks & Dunn. I have held an unwavering hatred of that song since I was 4 years old. The song didn’t even come out until I was 8, so that should show you how much I hate it. When it plays, I want to stab someone, vomit, and cry, all at the same time.
Seriously, it’s like listening to a bag of cats being set on fire. I just can’t do it. I can’t. No.
The only way this (modest) torture chamber could have been made worse is if the office staff had somehow managed to waft the smells of gasoline and burned popcorn through the vents. Even worse, if they’d dangled a platter of chips and queso above my head – just ever-so-slightlyyy out of my reach.
All in all, I’d say the compliment and positive eye news almost balance out the wretched song and thigh view. It’s a close call, though, so I may have to have a glass of wine just to make for certain the day ends well.
Weapons and fire aside, what would be your idea of a personal torture chamber? Would there be a certain song or noise playing? A specific smell? What other factors would be present?