Of course, since I'm a pessimistic Pole, I have a hard time believing everything will go smoothly. And I feel vaguely guilty paying so much for elective surgery (it doesn't help that all of a sudden, everyone at work thinks I look adorable in glasses). It also doesn't help that my boss says things like, "So, you're getting your head cut open tomorrow?" and "You know, sometimes the laser malfunctions and goes into your brain."
It wasn't until I decided to undergo corrective surgery that I realized how I have measured the phases of my life with my glasses and contacts.
Once a year in grade school, we would line up at the vision testing machine and, when it was our turn, look into this magical device and call out letters, or discern numbers within a kaleidoscope of colored dots.
I am a geek now, so it's no surprise that I was a geek then. In the way that I couldn't wait to get braces, I waited for the year that I would need glasses.
Fifth grade was it.
My mom took me to order my glasses, and I could barely wait the two weeks it took for them to come in. On the ride home with my new specs, I looked at the signs on Main Street. "Were they there before?" I asked my parents. "Am I supposed to be able to read them?"
With sixth grade came new glasses with light-sensitive lenses that turned dark in the sun (see photo).
Then came the glasses with the curvy arms, and the gold monogram letters in the lower lens corner.
At 16, I was permitted to purchase my first soft contacts. Then there were the colored contacts, which made my eyes sea green.
College, it was John Lennon-style glasses.
After 9-11, TV anchor Ashleigh Banfield inspired the glasses I am wearing as I type this.
But as of tomorrow, fingers crossed, I will need none of the above.
I feel like I'm a participant in Extreme Makeover, but the "reveal" isn't the world seeing a new me: It's me seeing a new world.
I'm ready for my reveal.