Obviously I'm not blind

If I were, I'd have said it by now. So there really wasn't much suspense. But this story does point out why I'd make an awesome superhero, so you should still read it.

I am surrounded by doctors. My wife is in her fourth year of med school. My brother- and sister-in-law are residents. My father is a cardiac anesthesiologist and my father-in-law is a retired family physician.

So when they finally told me "yes you have shingles" I knew what that meant. It meant "yes, there is a chance you'll be blind in one eye."

I swear to you the following were the first thoughts to go through my head:

If I go blind, I'm rocking an eye patch. I don't want a glass eye, or one eye that doesn't actually see stuff and points the wrong way. I'm totally getting an eye patch.

And I'm gonna redo my whole resume. Shit yeah, I'm going to format it so all the copy is on the left half of the page, and the whole right half is blank. Then at the top I'll put "Ben Levy: a writer with singular vision". I will totally stand out from the crowd.

Honestly, those were my first thoughts.

Which means I, like Spider-Man, crack wise at the sight of terrible, life-altering danger. We men of action see our darkest fear staring us in the face, and we make jokes out of it. I faced a life of eternal myopia, and I mocked it.

According to my father, I was just in denial.

That's ridiculous.

Mind you, while those thoughts were running through my head, my mouth was laughing. Not-hysterical-but-a-little-more-loudly-than-I-probably-should-be-under-the-circumstances-laughing. We men of action are entitled to such things.