So last night as I tucked my little man into bed, my glasses felt funny. A little wobbly, but like they’d had too much to drink, or I’d put them on wrong. I went to adjust, confused. 

Then the leg fell off. I watched in horror as my glasses died in my hands, in shock for nearly a minute. I tried to resuscitate them, but they were gone. I called it. 

7:58

So I went searching through my dismay, emerging triumphant. Well, slightly less blind at least. I’d found a pair from The Pas, circa 2010. I tossed and turned all night, having dreams where I was all natty like Harry Potter, sporting my tape covered lenses, and awoke determined to get a new pair. 

The ones I’d been wearing for the last five years were too large anyways, I justified sadly, watching their legless diamonds wink at me as if to say come on, tape us.

But I turned my back to their false promises, driving the twenty minutes to the nearest optician and trying on multiple pairs. Much like jean and bathing suit shopping, glasses shopping is painful. 

But it’s also difficult in a way clothing isn’t, because you can’t actually see what you’re picking. 

I always imagine walking out looking like Dilbert, so I text multiple pairs of glasses to my friends and husband to get the opinions of the less blind to attempt to prevent such a fate. 

I wake my husband up accidentally, and send an abort mission text to everyone else but luckily get four opinions first.

And as usual, I take the opinion of no one, picking the pair no one else liked best. 

Apparently I like to live dangerously.  

They managed to get the lenses replaced and my new glasses greeted me with a smile. They seemed to say,

 “Join us. It’s time to grow your hair out and become a librarian.” 

Maybe I will glasses, maybe I will