Frame it this way: Finding the perfect eyeglass shape can lead to decision paralysis
I’m a lifelong nearsighted person. I see the world mostly through contact lenses, but often enough with eyeglasses. I was due to get a new pair of the latter. This sent me on an unexpected odyssey. Mainly, the eyewear hunt provoked the question, “Who am I?”
My goal was to find frames that were somewhat artsy and/or chic, but not too distracting. Being averse to the AI website purchase concept, I visited physical eyewear retailers. I tried on everything in the recommended size for my face. I came up with nothing the first three rounds.
Except one pair. They were apparently spawned from a French designer. Cool, as this is a strong part of my heritage. Perhaps some meaning in this sea of metals and plastics? The frames looked like random slivers of a stained-glass window. Gorgeous colors. I thought, “Lookie here, shards of Sainte-Chapelle I can wear on my face!” I tried them on. I had shards of Sainte-Chapelle on my face.
Was that me? And what was I trying to convey to the world? If I were to fill my prescription with this design, would I want to see others’ reactions in 20/20? And would I care either way? I decided the French ones were too exhausting.
It’s kind of funny. One wears glasses to see the world, but one also chooses frames to be seen by the world. That can create a decision paralysis.
It seemed I was on the threshold of an identity crisis. It was time to drag my husband into this blurred world. He’s a say-it-like-it-is person, a man of clarity, which was what I needed.
On the way to the store, I briefed him on my agony, goals and observations. I told him I was walking the fine line of trying to not look sassy, because that’s not me, but also, I did not want to appear meek or dull.
Along the overwhelming wall of specs, I grabbed some dramatic-ish frames. Maybe, to my husband, I would look like a fashion magazine editor or an art gallery owner. He would see that and give an overwhelming thumbs up. I put on a pair and turned to him in great anticipation. I held my breath until he said, in earshot of the entire county, “You look like an old lady in big glasses.”
Both points were true. (I have a beat-up AARP card, and they were huge specs.) Oh, the honesty.
I could not stop laughing. He was right. Artsy, big eyewear can work so well for so many women of all ages, but not for me. I’ll never know why. I grabbed another pair with subtle front view frames. Yet on the sides they featured thick animal print temples. It seems glasses with classic frames — but surprising temples — offer a loophole. Like a version of the mullet haircut. Business in the front, party on the sides.
These mullet frames were a mixture of metal and plastic. They checked all the boxes despite my state of exasperation, and I thought I would definitely go with them. I also found a few other backup pairs that were either statement-y or reminiscent of my old glasses.
I showed the young optician my choices. Right away he talked me out of the mullet glasses. He said they would be too heavy, weight wise. The materials and my industrial strength prescription tipped the scales to no. Inarguable logic. Then I showed him the all-plastic statement pair. He shook his head with a resounding no. With quick millennial sarcasm, he said that choice was like, “Boom! I have glasses!”
I got that. I laughed again. My husband laughed. It was a regular comedy show under the cold fluorescent lights. I should’ve ordered from an AI website, because real intelligence stings.
I went with a backup pair, which upon reflection, are a tweak on 1960’s NASA scientist eyewear. Maybe that’s an understated cool look? “Scientific chic?” Maybe not.
There’s a good chance I settled. Finding the ultimate pair of glasses is a moonshot, anyway.
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com
