If you’ve been following my online life, you know I’m the walking definition of a glamorous existence. Relaxing by the pool. Hobnobbing in casinos. Hiking new (to me) trails. Jetting to Europe. Scouring old palaces. Cementing friendships.
FACT: Most people only share the
“Don’t You Wish You Were Me”
bits of life on social media.
ALSO FACT: I’m like most people.
I dragged my glasses from my tuckered face near midnight on my second day in Kansas City, never realizing glasses could pop in two. I held one lens in each hand, thinking No worries. I’ll get MTM to overnight me a spare pair.
Because I’m a champ.
The next morning, I popped contacts into bloodshot eyes and flogged books at the Lewis and Clark Trail Heritage Foundation Convention. The day before, I sold almost thirty books. I schmoozed and small talked and listened and elevator pitched and bonded and begged and guilted everyone who came near me.
My glasses must’ve been my good luck charm.
The last day, browsers must’ve read panic behind my mask of confidence. Nothing I tried moved my sales beyond five books. Not buttering up William Clark’s several-greats grandson and his impressive mustache. Not offering buy-one, get-one-free. Not telling my sob story about the US Postal Service losing my spare pair of glasses, leaving me on my way to England with two contacts as my only eyes.
I was upstaged by another author,
but that’s another post for a different day.
As I taxied to the airport, I realized another sickening fact: I couldn’t see much with my right eye.
But I’m a champ, right?
With shaking hands, I tried every configuration of tape to coax my glasses together, but alas, even mummification-by-tape wouldn’t fix them. And sight continued to diminish in my right eye, another flare-up of the parasite that plagues me.
What do champs do when they break their glasses
and can’t see out of one eye?
They go to the bar, knock back two gin-and-tonics and board their scheduled flight to London, sure they will awaken on the other side of the pond to nothing more than an en route nightmare.
But when I landed, I had a hangover to match my blind right eye and still-broken glasses. My dear English hostess Kate Shrewsday met me. She called pharmacies, asked about doctors’ appointments and even let me sleep late, while she found the perfect super glue for my glasses. I sat under the skylight in my attic haven, ready to cement my way to Ms. Fix-It glory.
Super glue spewed from the bottle
like pea soup crossed with The Exorcist.
In less than two seconds, it coated one lens and stuck my fingers to the frame. Champ-like, I vaulted to the bathroom, groped for scalding water and dislodged my digits whilst tearing away chunks of skin. At least, I think that’s what happened. I really couldn’t see much.
I groped my way downstairs and collapsed at the kitchen table. Bits of glue clung to bloody fingers, and my lens was caked with layers of dried cement. Another call to the optometrist revealed a week wait for new glasses.
Defeated. Pulverized. Drowned. Annihilated. Washed out. Hosed. I flew to England to record Not Without My Father for audio with a professional (Kate), but I was ready to cancel my trip and fly home.
Sometimes friends are the champs.
Kate brewed a cup of perfect tea. The perfect proportion of milk. And the perfect response: I’m calling my dad. He’ll know what to do.
The next morning, I came downstairs to functional glasses. My right eye recovered somewhat from its parasitic tantrum. I started working to master the vocal moves necessary to wow the audiobook aficionado.
My travels are seldom glamorous, Dear Reader. But on my last trip, I learned how to navigate life’s turbulence like a champ: Call Kate Shrewsday’s dad. He can work miracles with anything.