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I decided to participate in the Five Minute Friday prompt from last week: TOUCH.

Touching my finger to my eyeball isn’t something I would have ever dreamed I was capable of. Yet 25(ish) years ago, I was faced with a choice. I start my high school career with as a nerd in glasses. Or I could get over my fear, stick my finger in my eye, and join the ranks of contact lens wearers everywhere.

My mother recalls having to administer eye drops to me when I was a child and counts the experience traumatic for both of us. Given my sensitivity to the air puff test portion of a yearly eye exam, I trust that she isn’t exaggerating.

My eyes had to adjust to the foreign objects, so I gradually built up my time spent wearing them. A couple hours the first day, and so on and so forth until I could stand the lens for the entire day. Memory fails as to the details, but I remember being with a group of church kids and having to take my contacts out on the bus. That seems neither sanitary nor safe. Surely that can’t be right. I have no idea who we were seeing or why I picked such bad timing for extraction, I recall the awkwardness and inconvenience.

Placing the lens in my eye is second nature today, as is removing it. I’ve done it practically every day for the past quarter century.