Oh no, my glasses

When you look yourself in the mirror every morning, it’s hard to notice the march of time. But if I take my glasses off, I can see it just fine.

The current, and only, pair of glasses I own, is a pair of Warby Parker Preston frames. They were, at one point, their most popular frame.

When I first got them in the fall of 2011 the temple tips squeezed the sides of my head, and the brand new lenses had me convinced I had never seen more clearly in my entire life. The first day I wore them I was working at my first big boy job at a big boy magazine, spending that evening running big boy errands and standing nervously in my big boy suit amongst scientists, celebrities and editors. Somehow they, the glasses, made me feel a little nauseous.

I’m still wearing those glasses, but they are not the same glasses that I put on in 2011. The lenses are scratched. The temples and bridge are stained with the salt of my sweat. The screws loosen with increasing regularity. If I look down for any extended period of time they fall off my face. The last time I went to the optometrist she — whether motivated by a sale, or out of sheer disgust—recoiled in horror at the sight of my glasses. That was at least two years ago.

The glasses I had in 2011 made it easy to look at the future and see endless possibility. I look through the glasses in 2017 and I wonder if I’m going to do anything. I look at them and the only thing I can summon is this… thing you’re reading now.

Shoes and pants and shirts somehow all eventually wear anyway into useless rags but my glasses remain. They’ve survived drops, naps, depressive episodes, major relationships, being stuffed into bags, pained removals from their perch on my face, nervous chewing, bike races, hot summers, cold winters and so on and so forth.

I know that, eventually, I’m going to replace them. But I also know that, if I want to, I could die with them. I wouldn’t have to change or do much. All I would have to do is just wake up, and put them on. Do I want to?

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