Other people's lives
At long last, I got new eyeglass frames. I was driven to it by a catastrophic incident in which I snapped my old pair in half at the bridge. Even after this, I tried super glue, electrical tape, crazy glue, scotch tape, duct tape, and then someone clued me into a miracle - nail glue for acrylic fingernails. But even then I rebroke them twice. It was time for a change.
As with many simple tasks, in NYC, this was an ordeal. It's actually an on-going ordeal. First, to make the time to shop for glasses. Second, to find a pair that I don't completely loathe. Third, to get the prescription right. And now, to get them adjusted so that they stop squishing my head.
All of this aside, I have another problem. I hardly recognize myself in these glasses. These glasses have distinct personality. They demand a different kind of girl. A girl who wears black turtlenecks with pencil skirts and boots. A girl who wears well tailored suits and big silver jewelry. A girl who listens to experimental music, only watches movies with subtitles, reads Der Spiegel every morning, and Le Monde every evening. A girl who scoffs a lot and looks askance at everything. A girl who used to be very politically active and is now very pragmatic and personally ambitious, maybe a little bloodless. A girl who doesn't eat sweets. A girl who makes other people cry when she is unhappy because it's more efficient than having her own cry. A girl who takes no crap.
I look scary. Smiling doesn't soften the effect. Smiling makes me look scarier. This is going to be interesting.