Lesson learned: Don’t go to the optometrist and frame shopping when depressed.
Or at least not the day after you’ve crossed the threshold of 50.
I did wholeheartedly try to ditch that 0 nipping at the heels of the 5 by pretending I’d only turned five, but waking up that first morning in this new decade, 50 found me. Nipped like our pup, at my bed sheets, for me to rise and shine.
Because I happened to have an optometrist appointment! I needed new glasses!
Which depressed me further, as the optometrist announced that, now that I’m 50, it’s time to start checking for cataracts.
Before that, it was enough that I hate picking out new frames. Who doesn’t?
My mother. Or so it seems, as she has the patience to frame shop hop, and the boldness to request every patient technician to put on hold a specific frame while she thinks about it – and forgets where she saw what frame. So she has to commence frame shopping all over again, to leave more trails of frames scattered like dessecated insects across optician counters.
The only thing I hate more than helping my mother pick out her frames, is picking out my own.
These racks I find as daunting as shopping for tampons, where all the different tampons start to look the same:
So I usually select frames in two seconds. And it’s a difficult two seconds; I am virtually blind without glasses, so trying to see myself in new frames is ludicrous.
Unless I literally stick my nose to one of these:
Which, beyond the bridge of your nose, is not exactly seeing how you look.
So I have to rely on the nice technicians who either tell you everything looks great on you to move you along out the door, or resort to “Depends on the look you’re going for.”
The look? What look does one go for at 50?
I had no clue, as I was a baby 50, fresh out of the 50th crib.
So I went with something similar to my old look, and picked out these:
But they’re finally not my old look. My old look was bland. In that they didn’t have fancy jazzy arms!
All frames now seem to have fancy jazzy arms, so I decided I would have to live with what I thought were little sheep on the arms:
My old look was also brandless. These are Versace! Which I didn’t even clue into until I was picking up my new frames, and the technician sneered when I complained about the sheep and told me they’re not sheep, they’re the Versace logo.
You can see how clueless I am about brands, and if we didn’t have vision insurance which allows for a new pair of frames every two years, (thanks to my husband’s hateful job which is driving him into the ground, but at least he’ll be buried wearing nearly-free frames) I might not even have considered Versace. I would have gone with something cheapo – maybe a different look, if I’d been so bold as to make a change now that I’m 50.
I’m not bold. I’m afraid of change. I don’t even like a change of seasons; I’m startled by the sharp little green shoots now poking up through old snow. Rattled.
So I walked out in my new/old look which no one noticed were actually new frames, not even my husband.
So I had to announce the fact as I have to announce when I have a cold that I am sick to get any attention: “I’m wearing new glasses.”
My husband peered at me as if he couldn’t finally see very well out of his own new glasses ( a truly radical new look, but he’s not fresh out of the 50th crib, having learned to at least crawl and give up pacifiers, at 52).
“Oh, they are new….” he said deeply dubiously.
I asked if he could see the sheep.
I took them off for him to get a better look and noticed this:
Rhinestones! I hate rhinestones! I don’t wear anything rhine-stone studded! No T-shirts, no low hanging jeans with rhinestone studded pockets!
“No one will notice, if you didn’t even notice,” he said.
Maybe true. However, now that I did notice, they seemed as prominent as this cow on our neighbor’s lawn:
But just as I pass this cow every day walking the dog and wonder why on earth anyone would have such a lawn ornament, I never think to ask.
So do not ask about not only the rhinestones, but the creepy sheepy Versace little men on my arms, and I won’t ask you about your own odd lawn ornaments.