I always wore glasses as a kid. And I’m fairly certain that my gargantuan, chablis-tinted plastic frames, coupled with a short, cross-gender haircut – which I liked to wear feathered and parted straight down the middle (not pictured) – were my main obstacles to social superstardom.
Ninth grade saw salvation and gradual peer acceptance in the form of contact lenses, the kind that would routinely pop out as I went about my daily business. Still, rooting around the bathroom floor searching for your contacts beat the hell out of getting stuffed into your locker by Frank Snodgrass.
Alas, my glasses reprieve was short lived. The contacts served me well through high school and college, then all of a sudden*, I just couldn’t wear them comfortably anymore. I haven’t worn them regularly for over ten years now, and it really chaps my hide. Because even though I have a decent pair of virtually weightless Swiss specs that are the least obvious pair of glasses I’ve ever owned, they still give me a bit of a complex. Whatever! Things could be worse.
Every once in awhile, I’ll put in my daily wear disposable contacts on the off chance that my dessicated, renegade eyeballs decide to cooperate, but it’s usually only a matter of hours before I peel them off and flush them down the toilet in disgust. I had them in today, and as I was going through the supermarket checkout line, the cashier says to me:
“You have such a pretty face!”
Me (blushing): “Oh! Thanks!”
Cashier (recognizing me as a regular customer): “You usually wear glasses, don’t you?”
Me: “Um, yeah. I have my contacts in today.”
Cashier: “It makes a huge difference in your appearance.”
Me: “Uh, thanks.”
Cashier: “Just lovely.”
Me: “Yeah, I’d wear them more often if they weren’t so uncomfortable, you know what I mean?”
Cashier: “Such a pretty face . . . Hey, Carl! (to bagger) Take a look at this young lady, don’t you think the contacts really make a difference?”
Carl: “Oh, yes! Very nice!”
Cashier: “She usually wears glasses.”
Carl (contorting face in disapproval): “I see.”
Cashier (shaking head): “You should wear your contacts more often. It’s a shame.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Cashier: “No, really, I mean it.”
Me: “Okay, thanks.”
Cashier: “Have a nice day.”
Then me and my beautiful visage hightailed it outta there before the stroke of noon, when I was scheduled to morph back into a bespectacled hag.
* Following a recurring, untreated case of conjunctivitis that may or may not have been triggered by poor contact lens hygiene habits.
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