Shopping With Teenagers

This is not a post about writing. It’s just me writing/ranting/sharing. I haven’t been able to sit down and write for my six minutes today, so this is it. Normally I would try to write something creative but since I don’t seem to have that in me right now, well, I’m glad I’m writing anything at all.

Today was spent in hell. By hell, I mean first the eye doctor, then shopping for glasses. Not for me–for my two teenage daughters. At the optometrist, my older daughter was in her own hell. She got her first contact lenses. She was really excited. After spending an hour trying to get the left lens in, excitement was not a word she would have chosen.

Did I mention she has tiny eyes? So there was no chance of this being easy. Poor kid. I watched for a little while, but one can only watch their child poke themselves in the eye for so long before having to gracefully (running) exit.

In the end, I had to go in the room and tell her to ignore everything the well-intentioned assistant was telling her. My daughter had let her fingernails grow to a deadly length, so she physically couldn’t do it the way they wanted her to. She finally got the contacts in, and then she had to get them out.

Again with the fingernails. No matter what the nice worker said to encourage her, the kid wasn’t going to be able to pinch the fracking contact out of her eye. I showed her how to get the lens out and informed her that if she really wanted contacts that she was cutting the nails tonight. She agreed and I figured the rest of the trip would be easy.

HA!

The next stop was the glasses place for my younger daughter. She’s knew exactly what she wanted and she’s never been particularly picky. For years she’s been the easy child. Then something truly awful happened in September to change all that. She turned fourteen. Appalling right?

Her teenager-ness was never more apparent than when we start looking at glasses and the type she wanted looked bad on her. NOTHING worked for her.

If they looked bad, she made a terrible face. If they looked alright, well that was a personal affront to her. If they looked good, then in her eyes, they looked bad. The first type she wanted, she would try on between every 4 or 5 other types. She tried on probably fifty pairs. I’m pretty sure I could see the black cloud forming over her head.

In desperation I got two different optical people to show her frames they thought would work. Each time she said they were alright. Finally a pair was found, they only got a shrug, but she accepted them. I thought everything would be alright. Then I mentioned that she still had to get another pair.

I refuse to tell this part of the story because all I want is to forget it, or at least pretend it didn’t happen. Okay, fine, it wasn’t that bad, but let me tell you, no one can say that much with a single sigh like a teenager can. She picked the first pair that the optical guy had shown her (GRRR) and went and sat in her cloud. She didn’t speak again until we got in the car and I forced her to by asking questions.

One of her answers was that she liked both glasses, a lot. I think at that point my own black cloud was forming. That was the quietest drive home we’ve had in a long time. When we go on Monday to pick up the glasses I think I’ll wear ear plugs and horse blinders while she gets them adjusted. And if any of her friends say they don’t like them………..

So here I am, sitting at the computer, with my door firmly closed. Now that I’ve got that out of my system, maybe I’ll get some real writing done. Wish me luck.

Sidenote: This took longer than six minutes to write, but no one interrupted. so I guess that’s a win. Also, in two weeks I’m getting an eye exam and new glasses. I vow to not be even a tiny bit picky.

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4 comments

  1. Ah, I never got away with any of that; only cause my parents were poor though. No other reason. It was the cheap frames or nothing. And I often spent half a year or so with an out of date prescription because the parents couldn’t afford to buy a new par twice a year.

    Liked by 1 person

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