Oh, you haven't heard that mega hit by Old Blue Eyes? That's interesting.
People like to say that "$hit happens," but I also like to think that it's much more all-encompassing to simply say: Life happens.
I realized this over the weekend when I woke up early Saturday morning in a crazed panic upon realizing I could not open my eyes. Literally. They were completely incapable of opening and it was a problem.
But Emily, you might say, what's the big deal?
Well, the large deal was that both of my eyes were swollen and fused closed from a pesky case of double pink eye. DPE, as it were. It was one part scary, two parts disgusting, and a few parts disturbing. DPE is not for the faint of heart, friends. As a very clean adult who spends a scarce amount of time in the company of small children, it was a bit perplexing.
I did what any intelligent human being would do: I blindly tripped over two overly anxious dogs and smashed my bony shins into a large wooden bed frame as I felt my way blindly into the bathroom to see what the fuss was all about. The fuss, I realized, with the aid of a warm wash cloth and sheer determination was DPE.
Upon realizing this news, I promptly went back to bed for another 6 hours and spent the remainder of the weekend feeling sorry for my quarantined self and cleaning my home like a mad person with products that had words like "anti-bacterial" and "bleach" in them.
The high point of the weekend arrived from my ever-loving husband who, upon hearing the news of my ailment, asked the following:
"Don't you get pink eye from getting poop in your eye?"
Yes, you do.
I guess this means my days of spreading fecal matter all over my face and eyes for their magical healing properties have come to a close.