My first pair of glasses changed the course of my life. They were garishly big, oval white plastic frames with owlish flares at the hinges. Their necessity coincided with the beginning of middle school, sealing my caste as a nerd. Nerddom caused teasing from bullies, an urgency to excel in my classes, and countless nights at home with my stereo and a book. This ultimately lead to rebellion against suburban norms and eventual treat to Massachusetts. Maybe I should thank my first pair of glasses, but I can’t help resenting them.
So like an archetypical dork, I’m chortling over the irony that the most fashionable thing about me are my new Prada prescription eyeglasses. In fact, when I want to look good, I don’t reach for my contact lenses. I go with the Prada corrective eye wear.
I didn’t plan on getting designer frames. When Mr. Pinault and I went to Lenscrafters (so romantic… bespectacled fools in love), out of habit I headed to the cheap racks of bland, functional frames. They were crowded with disgusted teenagers and their mothers, who thought everything under $120 looked “fine.”
Then I had a long-overdue epiphany: Nobody’s forcing me to look like a dork. I hastened to the Versace/ Dolce and Gabanna/Prada racks, where posters of Giselle and Heidi Klum smiled at me, their spectacles conferring uncharacteristic warmth and intelligence. And as I slipped on crystal-colored Prada frames, I smiled back, feeling like this pair could also change the course of my life. Finally, I’ll be a cool kid.
