Four weeks ago, my left eyelid declared war. What I thought was a stray eyelash turned out to be the lid folding inward so the lashes could scrape my cornea like industrial-grade sandpaper. In other words, my eyelid quit its day job and reinvented itself as a medieval torture device. Naturally, I did the sensible thing: ignored it for three weeks, stumbling around with one watery eye like a stubborn old man hoping for divine intervention.

After two useless trips to the small-town emergency clinic (where “eye surgery” means “try a cold rag”), I was referred to the local optometrist. He barely glanced at me before saying, “Sir, your eyelid is attacking you.” The cure? Surgery. Of course, the best guy was 100 miles away in Tulsa — and booked until July 2026. By then, I’d either be blind or embalmed. Fortunately, my optometrist was buddies with Tulsa’s top surgeon — and even luckier, my oldest daughter lives there. Instant fast-track and post-op crash pad.

Two days later, my lid was stitched back into place like a badly folded bedsheet. Recovery involved “a little help from my friends”: an ice-filled Zorro mask, Ray Charles sunglasses, and a week’s worth of pain pills. After two days of ice, I graduated to the luxury spa package — alternating between the sunglasses and a microwaved sock full of rice.

Now I look like a prize fighter who lost in the first round — swollen, black and blue — but still rocking those Ray Charles shades like I meant to.