There are also those who use glasses as a fashion statement. I'd hazard a guess, however, that these are generally people with reasonable prescription, whose optometrist, unlike mine, didn't laugh a full old chortle upon taking a look at my obscure (not cool hipster obscure, but generally obscure) prescription and astigmatism through his magical looking glass. Yes, those who see glasses as fashion statement have never felt the pang of paying for an actual prescription. Yep, I'm talking anti-reflective and thin. You can't just jam any old glass into those damned frames if you have any sort of visual impairment, lest you want to look like you're looking out of a fishbowl.
My journey to becoming bespectacled has long eluded me. I thought to myself "ha! I might have gotten flat feet from my pa, but the glasses are all on my sister. I can see!" Sure enough, my sister has grown up with a patch. It being socialism, it wasn't even a fun patch. It was beige (one of the many shades of beige we had to choose from as colours back in the day. Well that, or red.) What's more? She had a bowl cut. Unrelated though it is to glasses, it did complete the look and upped my confidence. But then, grade 10 hit and my 20/20 days were over. There it began. The foggy glasses when you come in from the cold, the blind wanderings on a beach, tripping over enamoured couples, swimming up to strangers, not recognizing your friends after you update your prescription....
Like everyone who knows the growing pains of spectacles, I've been through many pairs. But somewhat recently I was compelled to say goodbye to a particularly brave, well-traveled and solid pair of frames. These were real stand-up guys.
They've had more exciting existence than many people I know. Much less glasses.
It all began four years ago, when as a pale Canadian I came to the happy leper island of Molokai as a reporter. My first week there, I jovially stepped into the crashing waves of the Pacific, only to have my one and only pair washed straight off my face.
"Shit happens," I thought as made my way back to town, "I'll just go to the nearest optometrist and ask for a new pair." How silly of me. This island didn't have an optometrist, but a dude who flies in every two weeks, and like in a third-world country, dispenses prescriptions and glasses.
So, I asked who in town has a helicopter.
"Hi there, I hear you have a helicopter?"
"Yeah...who is this?"
"I am an intern here and I lost my one and only pair of glasses and am now blind."
"No problem, I will fly you into to Honolulu tomorrow," said the good man, who also turned out to be a part-time nudist.
After a stomach-turning, yet awe-inspiring blind flight, I procured the legendary pair that would see many an adventure.
The highlights are as follows:
Not even two months after their purchase, I moved to France where I taught well-to-do, intellectually minded young children the ways of the English language. While in North America, something like a haunted walk might include a couple of masked councillors and possibly a sound effect or two, at the 18th century chateau where this camp was based, we had the advantage of having a former Nazi prison right on the grounds.Needless to say, I was volunteered to be dressed as a clown and go into the bat-infested dark prison to scare the little bourgeois enfants. It worked like a charm, until one of those loveable buggers knocked over the tea light candles. I panicked. The bat sensed that. It attacked me and my glasses flew into the dark in the midst of me fighting off a bat. Yet, as I was reunited with them after the epic scene, they were unharmed, as if to say "alright, I see what kind of owner you are going to be. I'm game."
And for the following four years, they alongside me, blissfully ignored the progressively obsolete and weak prescription within its frames, went ziplining, skiing, enjoyed climates in every extreme and like many things, they began to feel the pressure of life and my demanding lifestyle.
The end was nigh. One day, I woke up bright and early to bike on over to a job interview with the government. Now, with the government, you pretty well have to be dead in order to change a date for an interview. I knew this and planned my life accordingly.
When suddenly, my glasses split right in half. You'd think that at this point, I would've learned and gotten myself a spare pair or contacts at the very least, but no.
I tried to revive them, albeit sacrificing elegance and style. I tried super glue. It failed. I tried other glue. It failed. In last atttempt, I even tried black electrical tape. I looked a fool, but I biked forth proudly...it was working! it was working! And then...they collapsed towards each other making my vision wide-angle like. It was the end. I called off my interview and deflated, I walked my bicycle to the nearest optometrist.
Good bye, frames, you've lived a long and treacherous life and your service shan't be forgotten. Dying in the line of duty is no shame.
