Myopia had ruled my life until I turned nine and sat in the ophthalmologist’s chair, only to proudly and boldly proclaim the first letter on the eye chart as “G”! My mother actually gasped, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of guilt for not realizing that her daughter was legally blind. My first pair of glasses were amazing. When I put them on, my eyes no longer fought to see; they relaxed and took in the brilliant sights of New York City at Christmas time. Years later, Vanity crept into my life at 15. I was tired of wearing thick glasses (and getting thicker every year) with unflattering frames that weighed heavily on the bridge of my nose, creating an unsightly red mark and indentation. It was time for a change: Contacts. This was the answer that would bolster my ego and muffle the immature, inner teenage voice that said, “You’re not pretty.” Contacts did not offer that much variety in the 1980s, especially for people with astigmatism. I was given a prescription for contacts that were about 80% water, which sounds very comfortable for the eye, being the moist, delicate organ that it is. When the contacts were ready to be picked up, I was given a short lesson in how to put them in my eyes—a short lesson that went on for about half an hour and involved pain and tears. But my Vanity was determined, and when I did finally get those things situated in my eyes, the world came into beautiful, vivid focus once again.