According to SJG calculations, iffy at best even on a good day, I've been wearing glasses for about... oh dear God, I'm old... 37 years. I was 18 when I joined the family of near-sighted people. I don't remember anyone throwing me a party. "Welcome Four Eyes." I don't remember any sort of celebration. In fact, it was more of a big universal shrug. "Good luck finding glasses that look decent on that oval face of yours." It's been a long, never-ending quest, let me tell you, to find the right pair. Round glasses. Rectangular glasses. All shapes. All sizes. All kinds of failures. Big glasses. Small glasses. Designer frames. Cheapo frames. In the '80s, I had a pair I really loved. They wear purple. I thought they were the best. My father hated them. One day, he took me aside. "Lita," he said. He calls me Lita. Short for Carolita. That's Yiddish for Little Carol. Or maybe it's Spanish. Anyway, he pulled me aside. "Lita," he said, "how about you pick out another pair of glasses? I'll pay for them." "Why? Don't you like these?" "I despise them." "Okay, Daddy." Well. I didn't want my own father to cry every time he saw me. What fun would that be? "Stop crying, Daddy. I'll get a new pair. A pair you'll like." The perfect daughter, I went and got a different pair. That's how accommodating I was... back then. Pre-motherhood. I can't remember if that pair was any better than the purple pair. All I know is, my dad never pulled me aside and told me he couldn't stand to look at me again. So, there's that.
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