While convalescing from a bad case of flu (upper respiratory tract infection, probably viral, if I should document that in my chart), I headed to my optometrist to get an eye exam and a new pair of glasses. It has been a while since my last visit—three years ago, when I was still a medical student. Now with long, black-brown hair but still brimming with a hippie vibe, she remembered me fondly, telling me, while checking her index cards, that she started seeing me in 2005. I was around 17 then, majoring in molecular biology, when I could still see my feet clearly sans the spectacles. These days, you could strip yourself naked right before me, and I wouldn’t recognize a thing.
My frame will be available this Tuesday. Nella Sarabia, the daughter of the country's first optometrist, who happens to be my Spanish-speaking, super-cool eye expert, has never failed me.