Over spring break, I got glasses. Not a tan. Glasses. YAY!
But you will never see me wearing them. I am led to believe the Doctor who prescribed me them doesn’t even know what he is talking about. So what if I can’t see signs while driving? I’ll get to my destination. And what if my eye is shaped differently (thanks DAD. Your ability to pass on all the great genes is outstanding), that doesn’t mean I have to shape my face differently. Astigmatism is cool to say, not to wear on your face.
You may be Jewish (shout out to my Jews. Holla at me. Or should I say Challah at me) but that doesn’t mean you are qualified to tell me about what I need to see well. I only backed into my garage door once, O.K. I can see just fine.
I don’t know why I am so reluctant to wear my optical lenses. Franklin liked them. So should I. But what I think my stubbornness comes down to is the fact that under all of the smiles, there is a trace of self-doubt, of looking in the mirror and not liking what one sees…if one can even see it at all.
I tell other people they are perfect just the way they are. But I don’t tell myself that. Even if I did, would I believe it? Now these glasses are just one more reminder of the fact that I’m not perfect.
I wish I could say I love myself more. But I’d be lying if I said that I never had a moment of doubt.
I wonder how long it will take me to realize that I have a perfect body because my eyelashes catch my sweat.