My eyes heart.

I got my booster shot!

This week, I went from 🤓 to 😍

Yes, that’s unrelated to the booster.

I ordered a month’s supply of plastic cornea covers last month and only just received them last week. I tried and rejected contact lenses about ten years ago, favouring four-eyed fuckery. There were a few upsides to wearing contacts: wearing non-prescription glasses without swapping to regular glasses at sundown and not having glasses in the way while climbing.

Everything else about them was unappealing. Contacts–especially dailies–are expensive. I could always feel them on my eyeballs. The prescription was only approximate as only so many varieties of contact lenses are mass-produced.

Most of all, I was too squeamish putting them in and taking them out. I first tried all those years ago with a three-month supply, which means I couldn’t get the hang of them even after ninety tries. When the optometrist gave me samples to try, she couldn’t handle the awkwardness of watching me struggle with insertion and left the room.

When I took the samples out later that night, I was high. My eyes were so dry that the lens fused to my corneas. I had to put in eye drops to have any hope of peeling them off my bloodshot eyes. My failure to put things in my eyes isn’t limited to contact lenses. I blink faster than the velocity of an eye drop falling from a distance of 5mm.

Only because masks are utterly incompatible with glasses that I am giving contacts another try. I’ll be moderately happy to have them in on climbing days or when I go riding in the sun. No more sprinting home before the sun sets; otherwise, I’ll find myself navigating my way through streaky lights with my astigmatism.

Now for booster-related news: on the day of my boost, inspired by the sunny weather, I chose Sodapop (road bike) over Ponyboy (utility bike) to transport me to my appointments. I had an ultrasound in the morning to supplement the mammogram I had a few months ago. I’ve never had that much–thankfully warm–lube on my chest before. The screening was predictably uncomfortable even with the aid of goo.

After that, I misjudged how long it’d take for me to ride to the microchipping station. The plan was to park my bike at a friend’s place and then walk to the makeshift clinic., a 20-minute walk according to Google Maps. If I walk twice the pace of Google Maps directions, my calculations tell me it should take 10-minutes. However, I hadn’t adjusted the formula to account for my cycling cleats. I forgot to bring my shoes. Walking in shoes with spd-sl cleats is like wearing reverse heels.

I texted my garage-having friend to alert them of my foolish mistake. The so-called clinic was a recreation centre. Surely, they couldn’t have a problem with me bringing my bicycle inside. The outside security guard tried to instruct me to lock it up to the racks. I gave him my best “Fuck, no.” look and continued inside with Sodapop propped over my shoulder. The inside security guards were much more chill about my bike situation.

Imagine if my bike got stolen: I’d have to walk 6km home in bike cleats. With dried-up lube all over my chest. And a broken heart because I love that bike.

I got home safely and fast and uploaded my baffling route to Strava. I managed to make my first ever batch of brownies before my jabbed arm lost all its strength. I was grateful for a functional right arm to guide those most excellent brownies to my mouth.

Now that I have my powers back, I’ve been using them to pack and clean. Moving day is a week away.