The story or poem that used to live here is being rewritten… or, is on its way to a new home. But worry not, I’d never leave you without something to read. Just click the following links, and you’ll be able to delight in the newest Stories and Poems I’ve published on this blog.
My eyes are not the best listeners. I told them that we weren’t getting old—just deliciously experienced—but they still insisted on needing reading glasses. Since I’m not one to fight her own eyeballs, I went ahead and let them have the glasses… Besides, we can totally pull off the sexy-librarian-with-wild-hair look (our modesty is deliciously nonexistent *cough, cough*).
So… after an appointment with my ophthalmologist, I went to see the optician to get fitted for frames. The moment I saw the first frames, I knew I wanted them. I tried them on. They felt perfect. It was love at first magnification.
The optician began to chuckle and whisper with one of her colleagues. To me, she said, “Oh no, sweetie, those are made for men.”
“I know.” I had read the sign just above the frames’ display. “I still want them.”
“They are very masculine. They won’t look right. Try this.” She offered me a golden monstrosity with minuscule lenses.
“No, thanks very much, just fit me for the black frames,” I said, without touching the frames she thought were right for me.
While she wrote out my specific measurements, she started talking to her colleague, in Spanish, about my choice.
I stayed quiet, pretending I didn’t understand. I had been in the hospital almost all day, and didn’t feel like arguing. But when she told the other woman something about how it wasn’t going to be her fault that I was going to “walk around looking like a she-man idiot,” I lost it.
“Listen to me,” I said to her, in Spanish, “My face is mine and I wear what I please. If your ovaries and brain are so diminished that they keep you from doing your job in a professional manner, then move aside so that someone without ridiculous gender issues can take my order. While you are at it, tell your supervisor that I would like to speak to him or her.”
I must’ve been shouting because everyone in the (rather large) waiting room was very quiet. And I turned around to find the optician’s supervisor standing behind me. If I hadn’t been so mad, I would’ve probably laughed at the ludicrousness of the entire situation. But worry not, my Wicked Luvs, I got to laugh later… all by myself… while walking to the bus station… thinking, Hot damn! I should’ve told her that my eyeballs are secured in their femaleness.