Crying Game

So I decided to take the plunge and finally got myself a new pair of contact lenses. (I broke my glasses recently after accidentally sitting on them. Evidently, they couldn't stand the weight of both my arse cheeks.) I would have been wearing them a long time ago if not for the unfortunate false-start experience I had years before.

At about the age of eighteen, I purchased my first pair of contacts. The completely artificial and totally unsuitable blue coloured lenses were chosen more for their cosmetic appeal rather than their ability to help me better see. I was trying, with all my baby poof delusion, to channel my inner twink at the time. They didn't last long. After getting one of the lenses lodged in my eye overnight and having the other pop out on to the dirty floor of a public bus, both got ripped on the third day when I tried cleaning them. It was an expensive exercise in vanity.

So, you can understand my hesitation.

But buoyed by the thoughts of warm sunny weather ahead and hoping to wear my Ray-Ban aviators AND actually being able to see, I thought it was time to give the soft lenses another go. So last week, I got them: plain and uncoloured. Everything was going well - I even managed to put them in without too much hassles - but then came the third day when I ran into a bit of a problem.

Feeling suddenly like I had sand in my eyes, I whipped off the lenses only to find that a small tear had formed on one of them. Back at the shop to get a replacement, the optometrist decided to also give my eyes a quick once over to see how they were adjusting. After poking and prodding to the point of feeling like I was being eye-raped, his diagnosis proved unexpected. I have dry eyes, caused by blocked tear ducts. Apparently mine were so full of built-up gunk that I wasn't producing any tears at all. This resulted in the tearing since there was a lack of the wet, slimy film needed for the contacts to work effectively.

In all honest, the prognosis shouldn't have come as a surprise. It's been a very, very, very, VERY long time since I've had a good cry. Who knew being a heartless, unemotional bastard could actually be bad for you?

Mister Optometrist had one simple advice to fix the problem: place a warm cloth to the eye area when showering. Sound, sensible and bound to work, right? Probably.

But just to be sure, he also had a few unorthodox prescriptions on top of his conventional one. He also suggested, amongst other things, blinking very fast in succession, cutting up a bunch of onions or even watching a few mushy movies to force the tears to come. PS I Love You, Titanic, Beaches, While You Were Sleeping. These are allegedly great flicks for bringing on the water works. I doubt if it'll work for me. I didn't shed a single tear when I saw the Notebook. The only person in the whole theatre filled with men, women, young and old; all sniffling.

No, if I am to get crying and clear this blockage, drastic measures are needed. I think I'll need to watch endless re-runs of this – or better yet, participate in it:




Here's hoping that mere watching will work.