The Creative Nest

I recently went to the eye doctor, and let me tell you, it was a humbling experience. Like many people, I had convinced myself that my vision was "fine." Was everything crystal clear? No. Did street signs seem a little fuzzy? Maybe. Did I occasionally squint at my computer screen like I was trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphics? Also maybe. But I could see well enough, and that's what mattered. Or so I told myself. The funny thing is that my prescription had stayed pretty much the same for years. Every annual eye exam seemed to follow the same routine. I'd sit in the chair, answer the famous "Which is better, one or two?" questions, read some letters off a chart, and leave with a prescription. It was quick, easy, and completely uneventful. This year, however, I decided to see a different eye doctor. Not because I was having major problems. I just had this nagging feeling that things could be better. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I never fe...

Some mornings, my contacts go in like angels. No drama. No tears. Just vision. Then there are those mornings — the ones where my lens decides it’s in a long-term relationship with my eyeball and has no plans of moving out. You know that moment when you’re standing over the sink, one eye wide open, muttering “come on, you little sucker” like you’re trying to talk a cat out from under the couch? That’s me. Daily. I swear, if these lenses had hands, they’d be gripping my cornea like, “You’ll never get rid of me, Susan.” I’ve tried all the tricks: Blink drops (Blink, honey, you’re doing amazing, but she’s not moving). Warm compress (cute in theory — my eye just feels spa-ready, still no lens). The “look up and slide down” method (sure, Jan). Panic blinking (10/10 not recommended). By this point, I’m convinced my contact lens isn’t stuck — it’s just hiding behind my eye, taking a break, sipping iced coffee, and waiting to ruin my afternoon. And then… finally … after 10 mi...