There are many things I don’t own, including (but not limited to):
- A car
- A watch
- My own set of pots and/or pans
- A pair of sunglasses
One of these is a desperate necessity for summer in a big, hot, sweaty city and contrary to your first inclination, it’s not the self-control. IT’S THE SUNGLASSES.
Why do I not own sunglasses? There are many reasons; stemming from my lack of disposable income and my propensity to lose things, to my inherent belief that every single pair makes me look like a total asshole.
I don’t know what it is, but the moment I put sunglasses on I instantly feel like I’m trying too hard. Which is so stupid, because I look around and everyone else is wearing them. Even losers. Even old people. EVEN CHILDREN are wearing sunglasses. Maybe I’m too hard on myself. Or maybe I’ve been too damaged by the rampant belief that ugly chicks wear sunglasses to trick boys into thinking their cute, like how some boys wear hats all the time until that one awkward date when he doesn’t wear a hat and you realize his head is shaped like a butternut squash or that his hairline resembles a half-crescent moon that is pulling the tide away further and further from his forehead but by then you’ve been on too many dates to stop seeing him for such a superficial reason like the fact that his head reflects light better than the windshield of a car.
But I digress.
This past weekend I went out to a little neighbourhood street festival that was happening near my place. The sun was trying to spoon with my retinas so badly I knew I had no other option but to give in and buy a damn pair of sunglasses. I grabbed a pair, threw them on my face, took a 0.04 second look in the mirror and mumbled “Yeahsurethesewillworkhowmucharethey” and threw a $20 bill at the poor woman. I felt like I was buying condoms for the first time.
After my completely unnecessarily high emotions about buying sunglasses calmed down, I realized that they have a fake woodgrain pattern on them.
That’s right. I’m wearing the equivalent of this ON MY FACE (except way less majestic):
So if you need me, I’ll be over here wearing a mauve tracksuit and humming Joni Mitchell songs while I pack my husband’s underwear in preparation for our big trip to Casino Niagra.
EDIT: The funniest part about this whole post is the fact that my mom drives a PT Cruiser. But it’s red, not woodgrained. I swear.