New specs on the way, first in more than a decade.
I am terribly excited. The slight crack in my right lens (more than a year in existence… yes, I am ridiculously classy) and the several years old prescription has finally convinced me*. Another, equally (perhaps more) compelling reason I’ve decided to take the plunge: I’ve an image of myself in glasses that seems to go with a rather romantic image of grad school. Something about shoving specs up my nose, pulling a pencil out of my messy bun and writing something insanely brilliant. Nope, I didn’t claim it was logical.
But if all of our decisions were strictly logical, what a dull, dull world this would be.
*I should mention that I wear contacts 20 hours out of every 24. At least. The above cracked-glasses image is perhaps slightly more disheveled than the reality, though that, too, can be rather slovenly, given the right/wrong circumstances. And of course, it’s an assumption of privilege to have the means to replace said broken specs, or to equate broken specs with slovenliness, a term that conflates appearance with character–never a good thing.