My nerves were wracked.
It was spring 1976, my junior year at the University of Missouri in Columbia. I’d been dating my husband-to-be for a few months and his parents had made the eight-hour drive from their Chicago home to meet the girlfriend.
Matters were moving along quite briskly, as far as the young ones were concerned, but it was all still kind of new, and I wasn’t sure what might happen if his parents really, really didn’t like me.
I don’t remember much about our picnic lunch in the Quadrangle near Jesse Hall, except that I tried everything I could think of to appear well-spoken, intelligent and charming as heck.
After our visit and some time alone with their son, they got back in their car, headed north.
“So, what did your parents say?” I asked breathlessly at my first opportunity.
“Uh, my mom said your glasses are too small,” Gordon responded, swearing that was the only comment about me he could remember.
Sigh.
Most of my life, I’ve been trying not to make a spectacle of myself with my spectacles. It hasn’t gone that well.
I got my first pair at age 8, and although I appreciated no longer having to sit in a front-row desk at school, and how much brighter colors seemed, I quickly sensed that my powder blue cat-eye frames with sparkles were not the thing.
It was nobody else’s fault; I’d picked them out. But no other kid had anything like them, and even at 8, you know that’s not good.
As my eyesight steadily worsened year over year, thanks to extreme nearsightedness and astigmatism, I got several opportunities to wrap new frames around my ever-changing prescription lenses.
I kept trying for “hip.” I’d ask the helpful opticians what looked good on me, I took my time. No matter. Eyewear fashion was so beyond me, kids didn’t even bother calling me “four eyes.” I wasn’t cool enough to tease.
By the time I met Gordon’s parents, I was about three years in on my sixth pair of glasses, and I was still wearing the same ones a year later when we got married. Things like new glasses and dental visits take a back seat once you start paying your own expenses, so Mother Bess’ advice went unheeded.
The wedding photos show my glasses were gold-metal rectangles, granny style.
A little investigative reporting (in other words, I asked Google), proves my mother-in-law knew what she was talking about. A mother-in-law myself now, I realize this is almost always the case.
Fashionable glasses in 1976 were three times larger than the ones I wore. Granny glasses were all the rage after Benjamin Franklin popularized them back in the 1760s, and again when John Lennon started wearing them 200 years later.
But they were considered dorky once more by 1965. Talk about missing a memo.
Over my decades, I tried to exit the quandary by wearing contact lenses, but I never found them comfortable, and I missed the window on laser surgery. I expect to keep wearing glasses until the finish line.
Fashion aside, I respect my specs.
Without them, I wouldn’t be able to drive, work at a computer, put on makeup or butter my toast. I can read without them – if I hold a book at a distance near my nose, close one eye and don’t mind the resulting headache.
I checked with my eye doctor’s office today to find out my actual numbers. Although I was assured many patients are “far worse” than me, the stats put me at “severe visual impairment” in one eye and “profound visual impairment” in the other.
I’m not legally blind, though, because my vision can be corrected – to 20/20!
How fortunate for me and all those other millions in my boat.
Spectacles weren’t a thing at all before the 13th century, when Italian monks started creating lenses from beryl quartz (for their use only), and frames that fit over the ears and nose didn’t come about until 1727, an invention of British optician Edward Scarlett (thanks again, Google).
I have lots of reasons to be glad to live in 2023 instead of 1023, and assistance for my oddly shaped eyeballs is near the top of the list.
Despite my eye doctor’s help, however, I see no remedy for my fashion sense.
A while back, Gordon brought home some new glasses that seemed absurdly large to me. I insisted he get a second, more narrow pair that he’s worn ever since (happy wife, happy life). I don’t know how to tell him he really ought to switch back to the other pair if he wants to move with the times.
Oops, the secret’s out; he’ll be editing this column when I’m done.
I got my own newest glasses a few weeks ago. They are twice as large as my last pair and the frame glows a bright electric blue in sunlight.
My 20-something church choir friend called them cute and I noticed a CNN anchor wearing a somewhat similar version.
Dare I hope?
Nope, can’t see it.
