Sexy librarian, or nerdy hipster wannabe?
MB and I went to the eye doctor today. It probably says something about my personality that I get more uptight about going to the optometrist than I do about going to the Girlie-Bits Doctor. I always get antsy during the part where they flip all the lenses down and make you choose which one looks better, one or two. I'm always like, What if I give the wrong answer? I'll have to wear crappy glasses for a whole year and it'll be all my fault! Yes, I'm a bit neurotic. Why do you ask?
Then, there's the problem of choosing frames. Apparently I have a little pygmy head, so I usually have to get my glasses from the kids' section. It's not that big of a deal most of the time, but selection is slim at the best of times at our optometrist's anyway, and even though no one would probably ever know--and even though they actually looked pretty cute on me--I just don't think I could take myself seriously ever again if I bought a pair of Bratz frames. After all, nothing says "savvy professional woman" like wearing a pair of glasses made for an eight-year-old girl and marketed by the company that makes those alarming semi-hoochie big-eyed dolls.
Complicating matters is the fact that I tend to find one thing that works for me and then cling to it for years. (See also my irrational fear of getting my hair cut off.) For nearly ten years, I've been getting small, simple wire frames, and for the last six years or so, I've been going with plain silver. So, of course, there were no silver frames to choose from, and most of the wire frames were too big or just weirdly shaped. Right off, MB brought me these:
I tried them on and liked them, but I'm really not sure I'll be able to pull them off. The lab tech is going to order them in chocolate brown so I can see if I like that color better, because I wasn't totally sold on the tortoise-shell colored ones they had in stock. I'm just terrified they'll make me look like the world's biggest tool and I won't notice until I'm looking at pictures five years from now. That's sort of how I feel when I look at pictures of myself in my first pair of glasses (which, incidentally, were also plastic and sort of clunky). I was eleven then and didn't know better. Now I usually do know better, but I still have no idea if this is a good move. Of course, if I hate them, it's not like I'm getting a freaking tattoo or something. They're glasses. They come off. But I'd hate to have to go spend more money just because the universe asked "One or two?" and I picked one when I should've said two.
Reading: The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
Playing: guessing games