My first “real” job was at a small, independent bookstore in northern New Jersey, and one Saturday during a book signing, the author said to [17-year-old] me,
“You have really huge pupils.”
It came as a surprise to me then, but…
He was right.
I look(ed) like a stuffed animal.
I thought my contact lenses might bring out the deep, mysterious, ocean gray-blue hue, but the contacts were no match for my super-shy irises.
Many years later, it dawned on me that he took my abnormally large pupils and lunch of Ben and Jerry’s to mean I was high on The Weed. Little did he know, when I was 17, I thought being high meant standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, trying to relive the final moments of Sleepless in Seattle.
When I got Lasik eye surgery at 24, I had to undergo some tests first.
“You have especially large pupils,” the doctor stated matter-of-factly.
“I get that a lot,” I grumbled in reply.
After the surgery, I started having more trouble with night driving. The eye doctor suggested I use drops that would make my pupils smaller, thus reducing the amount of light getting in. I ignored him in favor of staying home at night, planted on the couch watching The Office.
Most of the time, it doesn’t bother me. I mean from a vanity perspective. Physically, I’m fine.
But then I started this blog.
“Crazy Eyes” is a nickname my husband and I have given to certain individuals over the years. And by certain individuals I mean people you wouldn’t trust with your dry cleaning. “Crazy Eyes” are the WORST. “Crazy Eyes” shout things about what you and female genitalia have in common. “Crazy Eyes” wax poetic about their dog French kissing them. “Crazy Eyes” make you wish you were never born.
And now look at me.
Do you know anyone with “Crazy Eyes”? What makes
you them crazy? (Bonus points if you can tell me what any of this has to do with guilty pleasures.)
Photo credit (Rick Scott): http://eyeonmiami.blogspot.com