The only difference between this glasses-wearing turd and me is that I was shit scared, it is only shit.

Yesterday after work I eagerly raced to the optometrist for my appointment to have and introductory session with contact lenses. At my last appointment I had expressed interest in getting contacts, and my optometrist ordered some trials for me.

I was beckoned into the small, dark and surprisingly hot room almost instantly. The first thing I noticed when I entered was that my usual female optometrist was replaced with a different male optometrist. He (who we shall call Mr. O, simply because I never asked his name), run through a few things and suggested that he pop them in and let me walk around the shopping mall for half an hour or so and if I liked it, we’d go from there. If we had any problems, he said, we’d sort it out. I thought this was a little strange considering I was just popping something onto my eye and walking around. I’m fairly comfortable with my eyes - I can touch the eyeball with my finger if I have to. How could there be any problems?

Mr O washes his hands, unfoiled the lenses and poised over me with instructions like “look down, now up, now left”. It took two or three attempts to get the first one in as my eyes blinked whenever he got near them. I made a very conscious effort to keep my eyelid wide open and eventually he got it in. This is when I started to feel a little funny. “How does that feel?” he asked. My brain was starting to go a bit crazy at this point, but I remember saying “It’s strange because half of my vision is clear and half isn’t”.

By the time he was poised over me with the second contact I knew things were turning bad. I started sweating as I forced my eyes wide open and looked as low as I could. It took even more attempts to get this one in as it kept falling back out. I wasn’t very aware of what was going on, I just knew that every time it feel out, this was going to go on longer. Eventually he got them both in and stepped away. He asked me to blink a few times and said they looked fine and suggested I sit there a few moments.

I had hoped once that was over I would settle down again, but I started to get more anxious and the sweating was getting worse. My ears got blocked and I asked for a glass of water. This is my danger meter. Whenever I ask for water in a semi-conscious state I know it’s all over for me. He left and I gripped my face. I was completely wet with sweat. By the time he returned with the water my vision was blotchy and I couldn’t see very much. I gulped down some of the water and lowered the mug back onto the desk with my shaking hands. I knew at any moment I was about to pass out because I see anymore and I certainly couldn’t process any of what was going on around me.

Mr O put the fan on me and spoke calmly as if nothing was wrong. Thinking I was about to hit the floor I asked him to take them out. With lightning speed he grabbed my head and took them out. I remember not feeling that at all. I wasn’t feeling any better and I had to leave the tiny room.

I walked out of the optometrists room and into the main glasses shop where my mum was waiting. She later told me I was as white as paper. I fell into a seat and asked for more water, gulping down two more cups. I put my head into my hands and saw my shirt had turned transparent with sweat. I don’t remember much of this clearly, only that occasionally I was asked if I was okay and I said ‘No’. After some ten or so minutes my vision started to come back and I could see Mr O talking to me suggesting I try again. I felt so ill I couldn’t bear to have anyone near my face again.

Eventually I regained colour and strength again and approached Mr O. He looked shattered. He kept saying “I really think you should try again, they’d be perfect for you” and “Don’t let this put you off - well, it may a little - but it shouldn’t”. I could tell from his face he was horrified that he might have given me a bad experience, even if it was not his fault at all. He told me he’s used to patients fainting, including the obligatory (and likely fictional) story of a “big hulky cricket player” who fainted when he put in his first contacts.

I promised I’d return next week and give it another go knowing that I could well subject myself to the same horror again. I felt so awful, not for having freaked out, but for having planted the seed in Mr O’s mind that perhaps he was at fault.

In the car on the way home I started to feel back to normal and wished I was still there so I could give it another go straight away, but remained resolute that when I return I’ll ask for Mr O again and hopefully put both our minds at ease.

Religion and I have never really crossed paths. Sort of like the neighbour who lives diagonally across the road from you. You’re not really sure how many people live there, nor what their story is, but it’s fun to occasionally peer at them with your 300mm telescopic camera lens in between the closed blinds on your front window. Right?

Last sunday I attended a Christening/Baptism for a dear friend’s first child and gladly blew off my other plans to turn up early with Brett. My only expectation was that there was some magic trick with water to be carried out. Little did I know I was actually attending a regular church service and was going to spend the next almost-2 hours watching a parade of improvised performances including one from an old man who asked us to pray for “the mourning dead families.” I almost put up my hand to point out the inherent problems with that statement when I realised there was only one exit (intention?) and I wasn’t well placed to make a quick exit should things turn less than Christian. During the bible reading I discovered that apparently it was all about expositional writing in those days. Perhaps the desire to provide a paint a picture with words was considered unholy when the only writing implement was two rocks and a plate of stone. It wasn’t until we cracked through a few of Hillsong’s greatest hits and looked around to see a lot of mouths that at least pretended to know the words that I realised I was not amongst my usual folk.

The Christening/Baptism/Wet Baby process was nice, but I wouldn’t have been too thrilled that the whole thing was billed as “an illustration of God’s ways”. My friend’s weren’t even listed under “Also Starring”, though I’d hesitantly suggest they had more to do with their own little production than the starring attraction.

At the end of the session, by which point I was finding the phrase “Let’s Pray” significantly less humorous than at the beginning, the collection plate was passed around. While it moved past me faster than Judas’ betrayal, Brett was swept up in the emotion of singing “Jesus Is A Really Good Name” enough to empty his wallet onto the tray (an act for which it took him several hours to repent).

As I noted later on during the catered lunch, if there is one thing religion has given this world, it’s really great moustaches. If there are two things, the second is a catered lunch.

I had just taken off the last of my clothes and folded my underwear onto the lip of the bathtub (stay with me), when I turned around and let out a silent shriek. At least the intention of the shriek was there, I was just too scared to make any noise. A big hairy spider was perched on the wall just near me just watching the show.

Spiders and I have never gotten along. I remember one incident of being in the car with my parents when I was younger and having a large spider crawl onto the outside of my window. I took this as my cue to start screaming like someone was being axe murdered in front of me, cowering as far away as possible until we stopped the car and got rid of it. In fact, it was almost identical to the time my parents decided to try out the drive through car wash machine, in response to which I excavated long-buried fears of drowning into a dazzlingly outward display of utter terror. My displays of fear might now be more inhibited, but rest assured I am still no fan of the friendly neighbourhood spider. I even took my year 6 teacher, Mrs. Karas’ advice to study and learn about my fear to overcome it but alas, the blown-up, colour illustrations of the hairy underbellies of spiders only worsened the situation.

Back in the present, if I was left to my own devices, I probably would have cleared the bathroom of anything which might serve as a hiding ground for Harry (or Harriet), had a few stern words with it along the lines of “I’m going to bed now, and I don’t want to see you here in the morning”, turned off the light, closed the door, stuffed towels in the gaps and foregone a shower for the night. Instead I fetched the assistance of my mother who went and got the bug spray. Instantly I realised I really didn’t mean to put a hit out on this spider. I would have been much happier if ‘H’ had got one whiff of the spray and quickly retreated into the roof through his entry point: the exhaust fan. Once my mum say it she too didn’t want to kill it and decided to start chasing it around the wall with a plastic tupperware bowl.

It was clearly petrified with its fast movements and possibly injured with it’s one droopy leg. I suggested we open the window and get it between the glass and the flyscreen. By “we”, I mean “she”. I even suggested “we” put “our” hand on the bit of metal one inch from the spider in order to pull down the window pane. Eventually ‘H’ got the message and climbed out, but much to my sadness it is quite possibly the only flyscreen on the many many windows of this house that doesn’t have puppy-sized gaps in it.

I went back to my shower but couldn’t stop thinking of poor ‘H’ with his droopy leg and (not so friendly) smile trapped between cold, oddly-lit glass and the taut black webbing teasing him with freedom.

In an ideal world, I would have opened the window, ‘H’ would have made a fast but cautious walk directly for the exhaust vent in the roof and I would have my shower knowing ‘H’ had told his friends, “Nothing to see here.” Instead, our fear of one another stripped me of my humanity and designated him a shortened life of torture and all I got was this tawdry metaphor.