There’s something about being in uncomfortably close proximity to somewhat strange men that makes me think of sex. Not with any sense of desire, but just the fact that sex could be had, like, just the whole anatomical possibility factor. Hey random plumber – I hope you’re an actual plumber and not a rapist. Hi sketchy TV repairman – how squirrelly and dissolute you seem. Hope you’re not here to rape me. Oh hi furnace guy – will people hear me scream from the basement?
Here’s a little glimpse into the manic stream-of-consciousness that often runs through my head at the eye doctor’s office, when I’m asked to determine between “one or two,” “two or three,” “three or one.”
I hold the black plastic thingy over my right eye, and stare straight ahead towards the AEIOU graph, and as I do so, the shiny, bald head and thick, black, bushy eyebrows come closer and closer until they hover mere centimeters from my face, and as the basic response part of my brain follows Dr. Mooney’s instructions to move the patch to my left eye, the more subconscious part of my brain jumps out of my body and pictures the potentially immense ludicrousness of the situations – here we are, in a small dark room – what would happen if I suddenly did something insane, like scream, or what would happen if the optometrist I’ve known since second grade made an abrupt grab for my boob, or even worse, tried to kiss me? As these inappropriate and wildly implausible situations fly through my brain, I think I feel my heart beating faster, and worry that I’m inadvertently creating some sort of palpable tension between us – oh god, what if these idiotic thoughts are making the energy in the room sexually charged?
I sigh with relief as Dr. Moooney swings around on his stool to grab the glaucoma drops. Disaster averted.