When I needed to buy my first pair of real glasses, you know, prescription lenses, and not the kind they sell in the dollar bin at Target, which I had been surviving on for the last ten years in a fit of denial combined with general cheapskatedness, I went to the
eyeglass store eyeglasses store the place where you buy glasses in my neighborhood. But they weren’t nice to me there, so I went someplace else. At the new store, they were very nice. Tripping over themselves nice.
This is more like it, I remember thinking. The salesgirl helped me try on about a million frames and it was really fun. Like shopping with a girlfriend. The store vibe was young and hip. This should have been a red flag. Because the problem is, I am no longer young nor hip. I need bifocals, for crying out loud. She put me in a pair of Masunaga frames and all the women in the store Oooohed and Aaaahed. I must look good! I remember thinking.
From what I gathered, Masunaga is all the rage with the kids these days. I don’t know from Masunaga. (I still keep calling them Masanuga’s, which sounds like a place to go for a bad Shiatsu massage.) If you go to their website, everyone looks very beautiful in these trendy, retro-ironic eye glasses, even that one model who has the most enormous eyebrows I’ve ever seen on a woman. Ever. But the problem, I’ve found, with getting the diva treatment in a trendy eyeglass store, is that when you go home with your new glasses you look like Clark Kent.
This would not be a problem if my new glasses also gave me super-powers, but as hard as they’ve been to adjust to, I’m beginning to wonder if Masunaga makes their frames out of Kryptonite, because when I wear them, I find myself not recognizing friends (sorry Wendy ) and/or tilting my head at weird angles to read and looking down my nose to try to focus on things, like I have some sort of freak case of Optical ADHD instead of a bad case of The Emperor’s New Clothes.
And then, the frames? They were so huge they kept sliding down my nose. So I kept bringing them back to the store and they kept adjusting the temples (that’s eyeglass speak, ala google) by melting them and making them tighter so that, after several weeks of adjustments, my glasses no longer fit inside a standard case, and when I put them on my head, I feel like a longshoreman had me in a noogie grip.
I’ve learned my lesson here, on aging and vanity. I will never again be flattered into making such an expensive purchase I regret. Until the salesclerk tells me that new Porsche takes ten-years off my face.
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