19 August 2014

The Saga of My Sunglasses

I’ve never been one to value things. I’ve always been more of an experiences kind of girl. But that philosophy flies out the window when it comes to sunglasses.

I have certain preferences – my husband would say I’m as picky as all get out – when it comes to my eyewear. They have to be brown. They can’t have wire arms. They can’t have bling. And they can’t be round or twice as big as my face. Oh, and they can’t cost more than $15.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find sunglasses that fit this description? Im.Possible. Seriously.

A few years ago I found the perfect pair of sunglasses. Aside from some diamond bling on the side, that is. They fit my face. They were brown. They weren’t wire. And, bonus, they were $6.

I knew the second I stepped foot outside the store that I should’ve bought 2 pairs, no 3, no every single pair they had. But did I? Well, if I did I wouldn’t’ve been in the predicament I found myself in this winter.

I had gone back home to sled with some friends and accidentally left my sunglasses at their house. No worries, I thought. I’ll get them next time I’m home. Fast forward through the storm of the century, literally, and you’ll find me 4 months later nearly blinded by that big yellow ball in the sky.

I finally broke down and decided to replace my sweet, sweet sunglasses. You can guess how well that went. In a last ditch effort before filing for divorce, my husband convinced me to just-buy-a-pair-of-damn-sunglasses-already. I settled for a pair that met most of my requirements. I even tried to pretend I liked them. But you and I both know round frames are not me. So not me. I looked like a fool. People never came right out and said anything, but I know what they were thinking.

A couple months passed and finally, finally!, I was in possession of my old sunglasses. For about 2 minutes. They, along with jeans my husband left while sledding, long story, were waiting for me in a bag by the front door of my friend’s house. All I had to do was pick it up on my way out and – yahoo! – my sunglasses and I would be reunited.

But did I pick the bag up on my way out? Of course not.

More months passed and I officially gave up all hope of being reunited with my sunglasses. My son, who lost an arm of his sunglasses down an elevator shaft in Florida earlier this year, still has hope that he’ll be reunited with his sunglasses. But I knew my ending wouldn’t, um, end like I wanted.

Then, one day it did. I was once again at my friend’s house, once again in possession of the bag with my sunglasses and my husband’s pants (you’re just dying to know, aren’t you?). Only this time, my husband proved why I love him so much. He walked the bag to our truck and plopped it down on the back seat. There was no way I was leaving without them this time!

So here I sit, at my computer, inside, typing this little story, wearing my sunglasses. They are never leaving my sight again.

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