June 28, 2005

The new, unsatisfactory model.

I live in a major metrosexual center where if you don't have the properly eccentric eyewear, people won't give you the time of day. That's why I had my frames—retro-futuristic and bronze colored to complement my coloring—hand crafted by special gay elves who live in London. And that's why it was a major blow when I discovered that my glasses were missing.
      My lost glasses episode also ended up proving that I have no stomach for crime.
      This happened over Memorial Day weekend. I went to my expensive gay eyewear place and explained that I had lost my glasses and would eventually be back to get another pair of their expensive gay glasses, but in the meantime I would need to get an emergency back-up pair from one of those horrible one-hour places, and could they please give me a copy of my prescription? What they gave me was the spec for my glasses—that inscrutable line of numbers that tells the lens maker what to do—but not the actual prescription form with the doctor's signature and everything.
      "So they will make me glasses just with this?" I asked them, fixing them with the most piercing gaze my unaided, stigmatism-hobbled eyes could muster. Yes, yes, they said, obviously uncomfortable with the whole transaction.
      Jump cut to Lenscrafters where an earnest young salesman is doing the best he can to take pride in selling Lenscrafters' hideous frames. I like him. He is a pro, a hardworking guy who takes good care of his hair. Settling on a pair of the least hideous frames I can find, I whip out my piece of scrap paper which causes the salesman to recoil. No, no, he explains, they cannot make glasses without the actual prescription.
      I proceed to lose my cool in a very unattractive manner. Veiled threats are issued. The f-word is used. Bribes are offered. Alerted to the fact that a more mature mind is required, my five-year-old daughter, who has been waiting outside with her mom, comes in to calm me down. She's very protective of her mentally ill father.
      Back home, things are bad. I'm seething. I can't think straight from anger and frustration, boiling with visions of slashing tires and smashing windows. That's when I decide to forge a prescription. It turns out to be not that hard. I Google up some prescription forms, make up a doctor's name, and download some logos. After 90 minutes of extreme eye strain, I have a decent looking prescription.
      The next day I am standing in a different Lenscrafters in a different mall. Do I have my prescription? Why, yes, I do! Have I been to Lenscrafters before? No, I have not. That was the one hairy moment, since their record showed I had in fact been to Lenscrafters the day before. Oh, had I been to a Lenscrafters before? Well, sure, I'd been to a Lenscrafters before, if that's what they meant. The lady looked at me steadily.
      "Even if you went to Lenscrafters in a different state, we'll find you."
      That's exactly what she said. We'll find you. I pictured Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. He was never bothered by anything, cracking jokes at people who had guns pointed at his face. I am not like that. You don't need a gun to panic me, just a phony lab coat and a name tag.
      Long story short, I did get my frames. I hate them, but am slowly getting inured to their lack of metrosexual glamour. It must be my native Ohioaness reasserting itself.