It Feels Good to Wear Something Other Than Pajamas for a Change
I had to go to the eye doctor today. Every six months now I have to get checked out for glaucoma. It’s an age thing. The pressure in my eyes has been close to the upper limit of safety for decades. But given my age, the doctor, who is not much more than half my age, wants to keep a watch on the situation. So I see her every six months. But I don’t see her very well on the glaucoma only visits. By the time she enters the room, her assistant has long before saturated my eyes with the dilating solution. So the doctor and her glaucoma tests are all a blur to me.
I had to keep this silly mask on the whole time. (I’ve ranted before about their ineffectiveness.) Also, there was no waiting in the waiting room. I had to call from my car when I arrived. Someone met me at the door of the office and escorted me straight into a room for my first test – the one where you stick your face into a white box and press a clicker every time you see a light anywhere in your field of vision. In the exam room I was told to wash my hands. The doctor kept her distance from me. The assistant told me how moronic the mask wearing is. She said the proper recommendation for masks, even the medical ones, is that the wearer change the mask every 20 minutes. That’s not happening anywhere. So I sat there with my silly cloth mask on.
About that silly mask, when I went to the urologist the staff thought it was decorated with a Minnie Mouse print. The doctor’s assistant had to lean closer to see that the print is actually pirate skulls. He didn’t keep his social distance, leaned in with (I’m sure) a better quality mask that is full of filth from not being replaced every 20 minutes, and inhaled whatever I’m exhaling through my flimsy cloth – a highly effective pandemic-stopping routine.
Why did I visit the urologist? Age.