When Funny Things Happen to Mediocre People

Last Friday I went to Target on my lunch break in search of a new shirt.

I had a big weekend ahead of me, and I wanted something new to wear that would make me feel good

Why not?

Into the dressing room I went with a handful of options. I tried the first one on- no dice. It was when I was getting the second shirt off its hanger that it happened.


The price tag flew out of the collar of the shirt and it got me. right. in. the. eye.

It immediately started to water like crazy. I couldn’t stop blinking. I couldn’t keep it open for longer than 2 seconds. It started to water even worse, and then my nose started to run.

Chain reaction.

I was standing there without a shirt on, with no tissues- not even a sock!- trying to stop my eye from watering, all while thinking, “I know there’s that expression about being so bored that your eyes bleed. But can your eyes really bleed? Is my eye bleeding? How the fuck am I going to drive anywhere? AM I IN NETWORK?”

(Kidding, I knew that I was.)

I got myself dressed and came out of the fitting room area. The woman working there took one look at me, asked me what was wrong, and handed me some tissues.

Then I made a bee line for my car.

I made it back to work, sat through a meeting, after which I went straight to Urgent Care.

Where I had to tell a room full of nurses what happened. Then I had to tell a really, really handsome doctor what happened. He was like a taller, buffer Jesse Williams.

And there I was- the asshole who got hit in the eye with a Target price tag.

“So, what brought you here?"

I didn’t want to tell him.

“I’m sure it says on my chart what happened!” was my attempt at being coy with him. He laughed and said, “It does, but you need to tell me so I can help you.”

I told him, and as I told him, I felt my face get redder and redder, and I thought, “This experience is more traumatizing than the event that landed me here in the first place.”

He then asked me to lay down on the bed, explain that he would need to put dye drops in my eye that would help detect any scratches.

And I wanted to say was, “Lay down on the bed? At least buy me dinner first…”

But, I didn’t. Because he was married. And because I don’t require that one buys me dinner first.

I’m kidding(ish), Mom. I’m kidding(ish).

There was a scratch- a tiny one.

Good news- my eye was feeling better by Saturday. Bad news- my ego is still a tad bruised.

All that for a shirt I didn’t even like.