After discovering my quiet solo eye doctor who works out of a closet in Wal-Mart does not accept my new vision insurance, I was forced to go to a new place to which I'd rather not return. It's like the Mega-Church of eye care. The employees all have a cult-like happy demeanor and carry around spiked kool-aid just in case the boss says "Drink!" They bamboozle you with bright lights and expensive decorations before shuttling you off to see young, very attractive doctors that make you feel like you did when you climbed the rope in gym class before dilating your pupils, spinning you around in circles, wafting incense up your nose, and putting you on a conveyor belt that carries you straight to the department where you must buy new frames with your lenses and where they try to convince me I need to buy anti-reflective coating. "Never!" I cried. "Never again! I can't keep it clean! Nor will I buy your magical space-age eye photo x-ray picture treatment!" I ran, screaming. But I have new glasses now.