Ran out of my supply of contact lenses a while ago, so I made a reservation at my optometrist last Saturday. When I get there, the receptionist looks up and says, “ah, you must be M. T.” Wow, how did you know that? “Oh, because it close to your appointment time, but really it’s because you’re the only client who looks like a true Québécois.
Wha? Yeah, methinks, I’m just going to let that one slide. Grab a magazine, and set down to wait to see the eye guy. Who turns out to be an eye chick. A very attractive el-doctoro. Yay me! So, she checks out my eyes, I do my best to not check her out, and then we’re discussing my prescription and all that. Because she’s not my regular optometrist, someone I’ve been seeing for the past 15-17 years, I ask in passing, “So, did Dr. M retire?” This crestfallen look comes over her, when she tells me that, “Gosh, you did hear? Dr. M pass away last January…”