The bad part is it’s not all for good reasons. The first, is my hair. It doesn’t happen so much anymore, but when I was younger, if I went to a new beautician who liked to be “Original”, I’d have to spend my first half hour there either agreeing to, or fighting against a new style with loads of layers. Why? Because my hair is THICK. And when I say thick, I mean THICK. But it’s also baby fine. (Ok, it was till it turned all grey). Beauticians couldn’t wait to get their fingers in it, their combs, their scissors. I’m not much of a “Hair” person – I’m so uncoordinated with curlers, hot rollers, curling irons, blow dryers, you wouldn’t believe it. Yet I could always see the mysterious grin of pleasure these people had when they got to work with my hair. I’m afraid that pleasurable “tizzy” has gone by the wayside, replaced by the more harsh and slightly thinner gray hair, but as my beautician agrees: “It’s not like I’m actually lacking for hair, I’m just like normal people now.” A shame. I hate being normal. LOL
But the second one isn’t quite as pleasurable, but I’ve learned to get a kick out of it anyway. It’s my eyes. You see, I’m severely nearsighted. No, I’m not a little nearsighted like your brother or your granny. I’m SEVERELY nearsighted. I had the weirdest experience back in April, where a man came up to me at the restaurant where we were having dinner and said “Oh look, your eyes are as bad as mine. May I ask your prescription?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he said “OMG, yours are even worse than mine! You’re the first person with eyes worse than mine that I’ve ever met.”
‘Tis true, my friends, I’m blind. If anyone has ever read Lynsay Sand’s Love is Blind, I can say she was about 98% correct in how that works. Feel free to read it. I laughed until I cried with that book. For me, it was as if she’d written my life. Well, except I’ve never thought a man’s leg was a table, because they always wore dark colored pants and the table cloth was white, but I can see the point. LOL. (one thing a nearsighted patient can always see is COLOR).
So today I went to a new eye doctor. The tizzy didn’t start right away. He hadn’t looked at the paperwork yet, and I had no glasses on, and I commented how it was nice to meet him, and hoped I’d see him shortly. He thought that was funny. Then he looked at the paperwork. ”Uhm, I’ll be right back. I want to look at your glasses first.” I don’t think he believed the readings they’d received from the automatic prescription thingie they use. He came back, my glasses in his hands, and says “You were right about not being able to see me!”
Then his panic set in. I could hear his brain turning. ”What if I miss something like a detached retina? Omg, this poor woman.” So he starts saying things like “You need to start seeing a retinal specialist once per year….” and so forth. Inside I was laughing. I didn’t know if he’d actually follow through. I’d heard this almost every time a new doctor peeks into my peepers.
So we got the prescription for the glasses then he put the dreaded drops in my eyes. (If there are typos here, it’s cuz I still am dilated to no end, and can’t see hardly a thing). He sent me out to choose my new glasses. About 20 minutes later I was back in the chair with the magnified lights beaming into my eyes. The most UNFUN part of an exam, and for those who’ve never had your eyes dilated, consider yourself blessed. I could sense his body relaxing. His fear that he was going to miss something diminished. See, I have no physical signs indicating a possible impending detached retina. Never have. I have other signs that mean my eyes are suffering from their nearsightedness, and it could lead to that, but nothing showing we were in danger right now. His relief was palpable. His tizzy melted away into a more common level of diagnostic concern. I smiled and nodded, when he said “make sure you come in if you see any flashing lights or any changes in your vision.” Yes sir! Of course, I’ve been hearing that same thing since I was about 20, but that’s okay. I appreciate his concern and thoroughness.
It’s a shame, really, that the only thing that now leads my professional care takers into a tizzy is my nearsightedness. Ahh well. Guess I’ll just have to send people into a tizzy with my writing. Whatcha think? Any tizzies lately?