Wednesday, July 11, 2001

That does it

It is not that I'm reluctant to go to the doctor. In fact, I usually enjoy the feeling of relief and sense of being well informed that attends a visit to the doctor, dentist or other healthcare practitioner. It's simply that my innate tendency to procrastinate, to put off even the most important matters, often keeps me getting regular checkups as often as I should.

I have always had exceptionally poor vision; I am myopic to the point where, without my eyeglasses or contact lenses, I can make out only very vague shapes and blurs of motion.

But when my most recent eye doctor closed his practice, I put off the chore of finding a new one and since I had a significant inventory of disposable contact lenses, it has been more than two years since I had a decent eye exam.

Nonetheless, to avoid one more task on my list, I have been willing to tolerate certain indignities and inconveniences. It does not faze me to hold the menu a bit closer to my face when dining in a dimly-lit restaurant. I am not bothered by the fact that road signs are increasingly difficult to read, since I am confident of my ability to make out large and menacing objects such as SUVs and adult animals.

Last weekend, however, I found myself at a nightclub, flirting across the dance floor with a hot, promising shirtless number. I downed the remainder of my beer and began to make my way across the room.

I was dangerously close to taking a spot next to him, introducing myself and suggesting a more intimate venue to acquaint ourselves when I realized with a shock he belonged to a class of men which The Giant Queen calls "Bette Midler boys."

By which he means, of course, that they look okay but only "from a distance."

First thing Monday I resolved to make an appointment with a new ophthalmologist. Life is too short to cruise ugly men.