I stumbled into the bathroom last night to take out my contact lenses, and I frowned when I opened the contact case. There were already contacts with saline in there. Hmmm… I looked up to the mirror. Yup, I still had mine in unless I had been miraculously healed from nearsightedness. I poked my finger into my eye… nope, still a lens on there. Darn.

Spent about five minutes giving myself forehead wrinkles trying to figure out what idiotic thing I did that I opened a new set of contacts and forgot about them.

Light dawns. Oh no. I yanked the drawer open. The optometrist’s words ring in my ears, “Allow plenty of time for reorder, because they don’t keep your prescription in stock. They only make them as needed.” Now I’m hearing a cash register ringing. My box containing my right contact lenses has been tampered with—it is open. I can’t remember how many lenses I had left. I look in the left lens box—it doesn’t look like the culprit(s) opened it, but it isn’t full. Did they open TWO right lenses?

I frantically searched the trash to find the packaging—I need to know if the two lenses in the contact case are both right lenses. My eyes have completely different prescriptions and visions of headaches and grounded girls are dancing in my head.

Finally, I find the empty packaging for TWO right lenses. *whisper swearing* I kept the evidence to use for questioning in the morning. I banged around for twenty minutes trying to find another contact case to no avail. I went downstairs and took the measuring cups off the allergy medicine and acetaminophen. I’m a genius! I thought to myself. I poured in the saline and popped the contacts out and placed them strategically on the shelf, making a mental note which eyeball was on which shelf.

I’m standing in front of the bathroom sink this morning looking back and forth from my contact case on the counter to the shelves of my medicine cabinet. On separate shelves, there are two little child’s medicine measuring cups, each with a contact and saline in it. I have three right contacts, one left lens, and my early morning fog working against me.

“Which shelf did I put the left contact on again?”

The contact case is mocking me– only the right lens lid is marked with a “R,” but I know three of these lenses are rights. Which one, which one… Did I put it on top to remind myself to put it in first? Did I put it on the left side? Ugh. Forget it. I shoved one in each eye and blinked. The right one feels…off. Wait, shouldn’t they both feel off? Wait, where did I get this one again? Was it on the left? I yanked one out and squinted down at the little piece of plastic… did they lick it? Bite off a corner? I sprayed the saline on it again. Back in the eye. Blink. Blink. I can’t really see straight until about 10 am anyway, so I can’t tell if these are in right or not. I’ll have a raging headache by lunch if I’ve guessed wrong.

Once they are in, I only hope my eyes are twitching a little while I head downstairs to bust the girls… this reeks of girl tampering. Ransom would have colored them red first, tried them on, and then thrown them away outside. I would only have known about it when I noticed his bloodshot eyes or the pictures he would have filmed of it on the video camera.  Jet would have dropped them on the floor or down the sink. Only the girls would have ripped two right lenses open, and carefully placed them in my contact case to make me think I am going crazy.

If you pass me today and my eyes are twitching, I’m not winking at you—I have the wrong contacts in.