Knick-Knack, Cataract

I went to the eye doctor today becasue I have eye cancer. Or glaucoma. Or Ebola of the Eye. Most likely one of those. I am qualified to self-diagnose because I have a degree in Ethnomusicology, which is very similar to a degree in medicine, in that both areas of study do not require any P.E. classes.

I knew I was On The Precipice Of Death, but I thought I'd just chat with the opthamologist about the details. 

Turns out, I was wrong. I'm not dying (today); I'm just OLD.

I have cataracts. Which means I am officially old. God, I am so stoked.

YA fucking HOO.  Finally, the pressure is off. Wear my stockings rolled down to the knees? Why, yes, I believe I will. Because I'm old. Leave the house with my dress halfway unzipped in the back because I can't reach back there? Yes siree. Wear my lipstick three inches above my actual lips? Why not? Eat dinner at 3:45 PM? And again at 2 AM? YES YES YES.

Okay, yes, I've been doing those things before today, pre-diagnosis. But now it's acceptable. I've finally grown into the lifestyle I've been living my whole life.

Oh, and I have a built-in excuse for pretty much everything now. And just in the nick of time, too, because, frankly, I've milked all I could out of having just had a baby (1986) or the Northridge Earthquake (1994) or the Holocaust as my excuses in life.

"Yes, I did empty out our savings and spend it on Skinny Girl Tangerine Vodka," I will tell Robin, "but...I've got The Cataracts, you know." And there will be nothing he can say.

Because if weed is good for glaucoma, then vodka must be good for cataracts. Trust me. I have a degree in Ethnomusicology.