Snow is a real pain to optometrists’ offices. In any weather, some patients don’t show up only because they didn’t want to miss their soap on TV. When it snows, some patients will “no show” because of the weather, and then later they’ll tell you they drove to the mountains to go skiing.

Now, I do not want anyone to be injured. Never. I just want them to roll their car down a steep, snow-covered embankment on their way to somewhere that is not my office. That’s all.

But snow also intrigues me because of who does show up. Thirty-year-olds won’t come in because of the danger of snow. But 80-year-olds will, by golly, be there for their appointments. Nothing will stop them. If they have to wade through hip-deep snow with a warm potato in their hands to ward off frostbite, they’ll show up. And, as they swat at the icicles dripping from their ears, they’ll apologize for being 10 minutes late. Honor. Integrity. Courage. Dementia. Whatever it is, I respect it and never take it for granted.

As soon as the “greatest generation” wades back out into the snow, we optometrists are left alone with our greatest fear: our staff. That’s right, those tireless few who do the truly important work in our offices, like hand us pens that have ink and tell us to remember to zip up our zippers when we forget due to our single-minded devotion to eye health. I mean, we have important stuff to do in our down time, such as reading Review of Optometry (especially that “Chairside” guy) and, of course, catching up on that tabloid story about Lady Gaga vs. Michelle Obama. Important stuff.

So, that’s when the staffers come in to tell you the story about their kids. You (ever the professional) are like, “Really! You built a snowman? Awesome!” When what you truly mean is, “Does the word ‘RECALL’ ring a bell?” But, you are civil. You are nice. The team members need to know that you care. You smile. You zip up as previously requested.

Now what? It’s been a long snow day. Not much is happening and you’ve read Review of Optometry (especially that “Chairside” guy) from cover to cover a few times. You look at your watch. Sweet! It’s 2:15 p.m.

On slow snow days, my watch always says it’s 2:15 p.m. I don’t know why. I can come in at 8:00 a.m. and clean my desk of accumulated crap and examine the 80-year-old heroes and eat a kid’s meal at the burger joint and play with the superhero toy enclosed and read all my journals, including Review of … oh, you get the idea by now. Then, I look at my watch and its 2:15 p.m.

I’m missing my soap for this? When I got out of optometry school in 1979, I had no real idea what I was going to do next. One of the journals (Review of Optometry, no doubt) had a listing that advertised a practice for sale in Ocho Rios, Jamaica. I was fresh out of school with no real prospects and I had several tie-dyed tees, loved reggae, and was not at all averse to dreadlocks. Besides, snow days are extremely unlikely in Jamaica.

I blew it. I fell in love. This kind of bad luck just follows me around. Thirty years later, she’s still here, no matter what. I can’t catch a break.

So, I sit in my office and make important observations as it’s only 2:15 p.m., as usual. For example, the hand sanitizer on my desk greatly resembles the crystalline lens vacuoles I observed in the 80-year-old guy we thawed out and examined a while ago. Quite a motivated patient, I must say. Also, I probably should check out what’s wrong with that blood pressure cuff my assistant complained about … two years ago.

But I can’t do that right now.

I gotta go. It’s 2:15 p.m. My soap’s on.