Big Hollywood, LLC's Big Holly Blog: A blog post about Magic Eye pictures...really?

On my most recent trip to the dentist I was reminded of a nearly forgotten-about disorder I have. I don’t like my dentist. Don’t get me wrong, I used to love going to the dentist and I take caring for me teeth very seriously. But the dentist I’ve had for the last several years is…well…let’s just say his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. And the only reason I haven’t found another dentist is because I fear hurting this guy’s feelings - that’s an issue to be dealt with in another blog post. Anyhoodle, I’m sitting in the waiting room perusing through the magazines on the side table, when I find a book at the bottom of the stack. A book of Magic Eye pictures. Without hesitation I covered it up with all the Angelina Jolie magazines I could find and sat quietly with my hands in my lap.

I’ve never been able to do the Magic Eye pictures. And before you say “You’re not doing it right, they’re really easy,” let me assure you that I’ve tried everything. “But Gretchen, it’s so eas–“ whoa, whoa, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but what did I just say? Read my lips…I can’t do them. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the entire world was messing with me - that it’s been some sort of elaborate practical joke and there really aren’t any imbedded images behind the kaleidoscope of colors. But the idea of millions of people playing a decades-long practical joke on just one person is too self-centered - even for me.

I’ve squinted and softened my focus and crossed my eyes – but I just don’t have whatever it takes to make the illusive 3D object appear. That is to say, I hear they’re three dimensional, but really I’ve been taking everyone’s word for it all these years. “Just relax,” I used to tell myself, “just relax into it and you’ll be able to see the dolphin/ship/flower/skull everyone claims is hidden in the painting.” Inevitably, however, I’d do the exact opposite of relaxing and panic instead. I began to convince myself that focused staring would bring on a migraine or brain aneurism. I feared that somehow my optic nerve would snap and flail about in my skull like a rope hanging untethered from a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. So I’d shut my eyes tight, ending any chance I might have had to crack the Magic Eye code.

It used to be a bigger deal, of course. I wonder how many mall kiosks around the country were devoted to framed Magic Eye art at the height of the craze. It was like everywhere I turned I was reminded of how my disorder kept me from a happiness everyone else seemed to enjoy. Even my grandparents had a Magic Eye book back in the day. It was right there on the bottom coffee table shelf, along with the Jeff Foxworthy “You Might Be A Redneck If…” books that never failed to make my grandfather light up and giggle. I can picture my cherubic brother, curled up in the recliner with Poppy Cliff, flipping through the Magic Eye book, both of them pointing out the pictures. I pretended not to care. I pretended that Danger Mouse was more interesting than any stupid 3D Magic Eye picture. I pretended that my disorder wasn’t affecting my relationships and that my grandparents could still love me and my brother equally. But it was a hard pill, even for a kid, to swallow. “Look at me, look at me, Poppy, I’m tap dancing! I’m…tap…dancing!”