One Day I'll Have My Eyes Examined

Update, Jan. 2026: Well, it turns out there’s a Warby Parker on my town’s Main Street. I made an appointment, did finally get my eyes examined, discovered my vision is better than I thought two decades post-Lasik, and got a prescription and two pair of glasses. Sometimes the things we put off for years (decades) can actually be handled in a couple of hours.

This morning, several hours into a major headache, it occurred to me the headache might have been caused by all those random reading glasses I buy in varying strengths at Walgreens just so I can read the tiny labels of the other stuff I’m buying at Walgreens.

As I was considering the likelihood that my self-diagnosed reading glass prescription might not be entirely accurate, it also occurred to me that I haven’t had an eye exam since 2007, when I had Lasic surgery. I was supposed to go back to the clinic two weeks after the surgery for a follow-up, but then we ran out of milk, and then I had to go to a friend’s book launch, and then I had to enroll my son in preschool and then college, and here we are, eighteen years later, and on a random Friday morning with a raging headache, I think, “Costco does eye exams, I bet they accept walk-ins, and anyway I need toilet paper and ten pounds of bok choy (it cooks down), so I might as well go to Costco.”

As it turns out, Costco optometry does take walk-ins, just not this particular walk-in on this particular day. They were fully booked, so I came home with thirty-six rolls of toilet paper, a twenty-four-pack of individually wrapped madeleines, a slab of gruyere it will take us months to consume, bok choy (obviously), and a six-pack of very cozy socks. The socks are the real hero of this story. They’re the only part of this day that doesn’t involve pain, self-loathing, or consumerist shame.

As you may know, Costco doesn’t have hand baskets, only giant shopping carts, so even if you don’t drive a cart around yourself, walking around Costco is like playing dodgeball with a bunch of large metal projectiles filled with mixed nuts and meat. Eighty-seven percent of the shoppers at Costco on any given day want you out of their way right this second because that tiny paper ramekin of mango salsa isn’t going to sample itself. I’ve left Costco with actual bruises. If the shopping carts don’t get you, the power scooters will.

This morning, I got so discombobulated by the crowds and the noise that when a lady thrust a sample packet of Kirkland brand fiber supplement into my hand, I thanked her profusely and proclaimed, I kid you not, “I’ve been looking for a fiber supplement.” Which is absolutely not true. The last thing I want in my life is a powdered fiber supplement. But when I get overwhelmed I revert to my Girls in Action training—I’ll say anything to please a random stranger. (If you didn’t grow up Southern Baptist, this may require clarification: Girls in Action is the program that teaches girls to be polite, listen up, dress modestly, give all your babysitting earnings to Lottie Moon, and make scrambled eggs for the Royal Ambassadors).

When my husband and I talk about moving, as we occasionally do, he dreams of a cabin off the grid in the middle of nowhere, and I dream of our old neighborhood in San Francisco. He’s like, “I just want peace and quiet,” and I’m like, “I just want a good coffee shop I can walk to and an excellent dumpling joint.”

But all it takes is one trip to Costco to remind me that what I really want for almost every hour of every day is a bunch of quiet air around me and nobody in it. Maybe that’s why I became a writer. In the car on the way home, all I could think about was getting inside the house, putting on my new socks, and sitting alone with my laptop. So here I am. My head still hurts. I can’t see very well. I’m giddy on madeleines and bok choy, which go together better than you might think. For an introvert, home is bubble wrap. I think I’ll stay right here for a while.

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy Notes on a Birthplace by Way of Joan Didion.