I went for a standard eye test. Spoiler: I’m still not 20/20, but the optician didn’t shame me. She just said, “Let’s get you sorted,” with the confidence of someone who’s seen worse—like a friend who’s held your hair back after a night out.
They use that fancy OCT scan machine. You know, the one that peers into the back of your eyeball like it’s reading your diary. But they explained every step. No jargon. Just, “This bit measures your macula—it’s the ‘Instagram filter’ for your vision.” I laughed. They didn’t roll their eyes. Win.
The glasses bit: a dangerous playground
Then came the frames. Oh, the frames. They have hundreds. I nearly had a panic attack, but a lovely assistant named Priya grabbed me. She held up a pair of tortoiseshells and said, “These scream ‘I have my life together, but I still eat pizza in bed.’” Sold.
The prices? Actually reasonable. I didn’t need a second mortgage. You can get two pairs for the price of one, which is perfect for losing one behind the sofa. Trust me, that’s a real skill of mine.
