Time does a lot of strange things to a person and at 35, I no longer care as much about the branding of my clothing as I once did. Hell, I don’t even go out so clothing and accessories in general hardly matter at all. I wear exclusively dry-fit t-shirts that cost 1/3 the price of Nike or Under Armour ones. I was going to buy a pair of jeans this weekend before I asked myself How many times did you actually wear jeans this winter? When I realized the answer was “just once”, I put the jeans back. This aging process is also why I no longer feel the need to purchase exorbitantly priced footwear: where am I going to wear it?
This phenomena extends to my preferences in sunglasses. I have owned many, many pairs of sunglasses during my lifetime. I have broken all of them except for two – I lost one of them at a Damien graduation and I think my head got too fat for another. Otherwise, every single pair of shades I’ve owned have met an untimely demise. That trend continued this weekend.
Just as we were set to leave the house for dinner on Saturday night, Lynnette broke my most recent pair of sunglasses. I am not used to driving in my car with passengers and consequently, the front passenger seat is more like personal storage. My sunglasses were resting on the passenger seat and I only realized this as Lynnette lowered herself into the car. “NOOOOO!” I shouted as Lynnette lowered her rump onto the seat. I shoved my hand between her butt and the seat in an attempt to save the glasses, but I was too slow, Lynnette’s hindquarters too deadly. She sat on both my hand and the sunglasses, and I heard that horrifying sound of crunched plastic. I recovered the glasses to find that one of the arms had been irrevocably displaced. I cannot wear these glasses in a way that makes me look like an acceptable member of society. “I’m so sorry,” Lynnette said. “It’s OK,” I said. Now, it should be said it did occur to my juvenile brain that these glasses went out the exact same way I’d want to go out. I could not wish them a fairer death.
Coincidentally, our first stop after my sunglasses were ruined was the Art and Flea in Mililani. A vendor was selling sunglasses made of reclaimed wood. Now, this isn’t exactly my bag, baby, but I since I was out a pair of sunglasses, I tried a pair on. They were light. “Here, this pair is a little wider, for wider faces,” the vendor said, handing me a pair. I like that he said “wider” instead of “fatter”. I mean, we both know the score, but I can did euphemisms every so often. Anyway, they fit well and they are very light. The end of the arms don’t feel like they’re pinching the sides of my skull. I turned to Lynnette for her feedback and she said they looked fine. I generally value her opinion on these things but this time I silently wondered if she just wanted me to get a replacement pair as soon as possible so that I wouldn’t stretch the quest for new sunglasses on forever, which I have been known to do. It’s also possible that she knew if the search for new shades became a prolonged one, then tales of her elegant yet powerful behind would grow.
So that’s where we are now. I have a new pair of sunglasses that are living on borrowed time. How long will they last in my life? I don’t know. This world is so fleeting. But, thank you for your pains, Tommy Hils sunglasses. Fare thee well.