I would venture to say that I do like novel things and fun accessories. Things that make their way into my wardrobe are carefully scrutinized over its functionality and it’s aesthetic value. There are objects that are purchased solely on their novelty and it’s role and worth are settled later. In either case, the decision to buy is rather easy when the price is right and there’s no one around to oversee my purchase. The Internet makes emotional and novel buying so simple, that I’ve become inured to dealing with submit buttons over salespeople.
My eyesight has been going and it’s high time that I get new frames. Thrilling as this idea is to get new ‘look’, I’ve become so introverted that I don’t want to go through the hassle of picking out new frames. The store that I purchased my frames for the last few years is a bijou-boutique of sorts. Bare white walls with equally blank shelving showcase eyeglasses as if they were expensive scarves. The sales staff are friendly enough, but I’d be friendly too if I were getting a cut of the sales. I am intimidated by these noir-clad eye-wear fashionistas and I scrutinize my outfit every morning thinking ‘This is the day that I go shop for glasses! Maybe!’. It has been 20 days now since I received my latest prescription. Blurry text and eye strain are palpable, but the thought of disapproving stares at my choice of shirt layers and pants strengthen my hermetic continence.
I want unfeeling and blunt decisions made for me and my choice of eye-wear. I want the store to be as surreal as the Saturday Night Live skit ‘Sprockets’. I sit down at an ebony and glass table and the salesman takes one look at me and says ‘diese glasses are fur you, pick zem up in a veek’. I go home, and they resume sitting in their chair looking complacent with raised eyebrows. No lingering over shelves, trying on frames, staring into mirrors whilst imagining different hairstyles or lighting situations.