Wednesday, December 17, 2008
R.I.P. Lucky Green Glasses
My glasses frames sprouted an irreparable crack over the weekend. I called Dave from the Petco parking lot in Pittsfield to report the sad news. He tried to comfort me with "honey, you are more than your glasses," but I wasn't so sure. These weren't just any glasses. They were the best glasses in the history of glasses, or at least the history of my face and glasses.
I found them at Next Eyewear on College Avenue in Oakland six or seven years ago. As I recall, I didn't really need new glasses at the time and I was broke as usual, but when I tried them on, there was something so extraordinarily right about them, so me only better best self about them, that I whipped out my credit card with the justification: no one will deny me if I'm wearing these glasses...which actually more or less proved true, plus they generated an incredible amount of good will and conversation.
Literally hundreds of strangers, from all walks of life and of all races, thought enough of my glasses to stop me on the street or on the bus or in the spa locker room to compliment me about them. Society matrons. Homeless men. Hip baristas from coast to coast. These glasses helped me learn to graciously accept a compliment. I'd smile like I'd never heard it before, look the person in the eye, and offer a sincere thank you in return.
It's hard to say what exactly made these glasses compelling to such a wide range of people. All I know about their origin is that they were French and one of a kind. There's no label on the frames. I just sent the above photo to Next Eyewear hoping that someone there will recognize the designer.
The glasses were subtly spectacular. They did a slow burn. When they caught people's attention, the design somehow made them look closer. The liquid green pattern, the not quite cat's eye shape, and the flirty black rhinestones combined with the feng shui of my face in a mysterious way that compelled people to talk to me.
I'm not a particularly fashionable or put-together person and sometimes the compliments felt like compassion...like the people thought: damn that geeky girl got something right, let's prop her up and celebrate.
These glasses let me walk into any room and know that even though I might not be the smartest or the prettiest or the best writer or the most patient mother, odds were I'd have the best glasses. I will miss that power.