Lasik Vision Correction: Not so Elective After All

My upcoming Lasik eye surgery is a matter of survival. As an emergency kit stowed in a hallway closet is peace of mind, my laser vision will be one step to ultimate survival. If the Armageddon happens, I will be able to see. And being able to see, will make me a superior being to those that will have to rely on contacts and glasses in a do-over earth. Contacts will dry out, irritate eyes and have no place to store overnight. Saline solution will become a crutch currency and the wreckages of Walgreen's will be never alone for the constant shuffling of debris from the ocularly dependent.
Those with glasses can match my stride if their frames were not blown off their face in the blast. But soon the glasses will break or be misplaced or be blown off the face.
With my eyesight, others will join my coven of survivors. As their leader, I will reach out and befriend other laser vision survivors with tales of my own elective corrective vision surgery. And we will be friends. Eagle eye friends. I will befriend the remaining 2 eagles on barren earth and my eyes will speak to them. My laser vision eyes will communicate to the soul of the eagle. And then I will know why it is bald.

Fountain of Youth or Hey! Pizza Face!

A sucker is born every minute and happy birthday to me. Now a month into my 25th year and as people older than myself like to point out, "you're a quarter of a century now," I am well aware that I am supposed to or at least pretend to be an adult. But what do adults do, I wonder? Watch the news? Check, I can't help that since a certain date of alarm we've all be very aware of breaking news with the 24hr news networks. What else am I suppose to do? Get old, I'm down with that, or at least I thought I was.
Peering into my toothpaste-splattered mirror, my vanity erupted into worry. Do I have to get a face-lift? How will I pay for that? Wait a minute; I don't even want to go! As quoted myself after the infamous 2001 knee reconstruction, "surgery sucks." Quicker than Quakers, my worry lines eased into a self-assured smug, I realized I had already turned the clock so far back it was a sundial. Across my Irish/German/English/Danish and foremost Scottish cheekbones stood the fountain of youth. I am the proud owner, shall I say curator or cultivator of a magnificent crop of sturdy and immovable blackheads, occasionally visited by their much beefier cousins; pimples, zits, blemishes and as the British say spots. My skin looks more the pop-star-lusting pre-teen than any card-carrying twenty-something. On the edge of embracing my chronic torrential acne, I balked, did the years and dollars I spent attempting to grind, medicate, squeeze and, my favorite,
visualize them away mean nothing? What about the hours of recreational dermatological excavations in the shower? I stood in light boxes for you, endured freezing treatments and was filled full of years of problematic pills to eradicate my acne. And yes, I did the Accutane and no, it didn't work. But I did enjoy the novel length waivers and cautions I had to sign in order to take the drug. My developing years were plagued by my constant epidermal eruptions, causing clichéd self esteemed. Now I take no "miracle pills" and may have a little too much self-esteem (if that's possible). Surprised at myself with the apparent lack of concern for my destined to be defective complexion, I realized I was an adult; scratch that, a quarter centenarian. I guess I had perspective, and I always thought that meant a vanishing point. And it did because what's a zit on my forehead? Nothing, if anything just another reason to be asked for my ID and
questioned about its authenticity.
I can say now that time was the answer; the battlefield of my face has been quiet. Occasionally bumps rise again like a long forgotten rebellion, threatening forests of hair follicles. Relatively soon, they retreat, the relinquishing their strategic pore holdings and leaving their protest signs in the sebum. What do I have to do to maintain this pallor peace? Toxic astringents? Benzoly peroxide bombings? Slaughters with salicylic acid?

Go Blog Go!

Check it out! Unearthed from forgotten depths of the internets, Go Blog Go, my first blog has been located and re-mastered with dolby digital! Check out me from 2006ish!

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Concourse B, Gate B10

I am 28 years old and I packed a suitcase full of dirty laundry for Thanksgiving and that is not a smart metaphor. I have four chapsticks in my plastic 1-quart bag of 3 oz containers with one lip-gloss, a full sized deodorant and mouth sore pain reliever gel. Looks like I am anticipating a post-turkey tryptophan-laced mass-makeout session with questionable oral health participants.

I packed a toothbrush. It didn't fit in the 1-quart bag I picked up in the security checkpoint line. I know it isn't liquid and didn't need to be screen separately but its friends were in there, you know, the mouth sore gel and the horde of lip applicants. I put the toothbrush on the bottom of my purse. Figured that would be cleaner than placing it directly on the conveyer belt through the x-ray machine. What am I supposed to do with all my toiletry accoutrements now that they have to be segregated by viscosity? My glasses, contact case and toothbrush have nowhere to live now that the pastes and ointments have to suffocate in a Ziploc. So they run free. Free as the movie stubs from The Dark Knight that haunt the corners of my purse. I suppose they could go in a case. A case for the contact case. A case for the eyeglasses. A case for the toothbrush. Too many cases. Toothbrushes are always gross anyway. If it looks dirty later, I guess I'll throw
it away.

The girl in front of me in the security line has a brand new American Girl Doll, looks like Christmas came early. I know it's new because the doll hair is still braided in the oft-imitated never-replicated sleekness of a factory fresh $90 credit charge. She got the Swedish one. Kjersten or something, there is a "J" in the name, a silent "J."

Four moving sidewalks, two escalators and a tram ride to my concourse. Concourse B is hidden out back, that's where they keep the tiny planes. Secret tiny planes. I bet we will be stealth in our arrival to ND. Invisible even. In our tiny plane. Tiny secret plane.

Lasik Eye Surgery: My Gateway to a Boob Job?

I am getting a complimentary eye exam to determine if I am I good candidate for Lasik eye surgery. I think anyone willing to shell out the dollars is a good candidate, which is why part of the exam can include a financing consultation.
The clinic offered to perform the surgery right after my appointment tomorrow. I am not quite that ready yet. I just want to see if it is possible, because if it isn't, case closed. So, I am going in. When I called to make my appointment, the woman on the phone set me up and asked a bunch of questions, like "how long have you been considering Lasik." And I answered, "Since Thursday." She laughed until she realized I was serious.

I never seriously considered Lasik until Thursday. I just decided to check it out. If I had the surgery, I won't have so many contact issues, won't blink on camera so much or have to buy more cheap glasses from Hong Kong (which I might miss if Lasik makes my vision perfect).

But my real concern is about is Lasik going to be my gateway to a boob job? I can pretend all I want that I am interested in Lasik is because my eyes get infected sometimes with my contacts or something like that, but really I dig the convenience and the simplification. So why not a boob job? That would add to my convenience, but not necessarily to any simplification. And surgery sucks, in any form.

I just want to keep the globes out of my shirt.

Olympics: Why am I not wearing Gold Medals?

What can I take up at the ripe age of 27?

I think rowing or picking up seashells. I like beaches, weather is never too hot for me, I like oceans, I have no problem leaning down and becoming upright again, sand between my toes is cool and I can totally walk with my head down for long periods of time if needed.

Looks like I probably have to become an Olympic beachcomber.

I've already mastered walking in Earth shoes with Kalso Negative Heel Technology, which mimics walking in stand and thusly encourages the body into a more natural and healthy posture. I figure I can wear my Earth shoes to cross train in the winter. I will wear the Earth shoes in the snow and increase the effect. Then walking in sand will be like floating.

I can practice picking up seashells by picking up lost change on the street or sidewalk. This extra dough will finance my training program and help fund my beach combing uniform, unless the country pays for that. I'm not sure on all the logistics of being on an Olympic team just yet.

Yes, I am aware that Beachcombing is a difficult sport to break into, especially with all those island nations out there. I will use that to my advantage, I spend most of my year buried in snow with is just as difficult to walk in and has that annoying squeaking crunching sound, so when I show up all pasty white on the Olympic beach the other Olympians will under-estimate me, but I will find all the seashells! Take that other nations! The USA Beachcombing team of 2012 is going take home the gold!