Sunglasses

My folks have been harping on my to buckle down and invest in some sunglasses. Love the way loved ones warn you about health stuff. Start with fire and brimstone and escalate to aneurysm-inducing apocalyptic fables from there…
“You’re gonna get cataracts! Your retinas will lose their integrity and your eyeballs will liquefy in your head… happened to a buddy of mine at work, now everybody thinks he’s an oracle… you can do what you want, but I’m not leading you around if you go blind, I hope you like sticks…”

That’s how my parents get through to me, by telling what they’re NOT going to do for me if the worst happens. Last words from my Dad before I went to college
“ Boy, I’ll tell you like this, condoms are cheaper than diapers, and condoms are cheaper than medicine. And just so you know, I’m not babysitting and I’m not driving your scabby ass back and forth to the clinic. Protect your damned neck.”

I can’t wait until I have my own kids, looking forward to dropping all kinds of slightly-too-real knowledge on them
“Homework is like alibis, it’s all about commitment and attention to detail.”
“A little consent now saves a lot of legal fees later.”
“The only times a man should cry are at funerals, sporting events, and terminal hunting accidents.”

So it’s time to buy some sunglasses. I hate owning sunglasses. Always lose them, or break them, or forget they’re in my pocket and sit on them. And though expensive glasses were never my thing, the kind I bought were never quite cheap enough that I wouldn’t be annoyed about breaking a pair. You have to be so protective with them; it’s like walking around with an egg all day, except at least you have the option of eating the egg, or not caring and dropping the egg, or maybe letting it hatch, hook yourself up with some very tiny chicken nuggets. Shouldn’t have said that last part, we don’t know each other well enough for you to learn how little reliable intel I have in this skull. Should’ve probably just said I hate owning sunglasses and left it at that.

I’m now the owner of a pair of Kenneth Cole Aviators. Been kind of a bitter experience so far. Have realized there’s no way my non-threatening excuse for a glare can live up the gangster buildup that comes with a pair of aviators. Malcolm Jamal Warner would never buy these, why would I think I can pull off something he couldn’t? When I have them on, it looks like I might be an R&B singer with eating disorder abs, maybe a backup dancer for Jagged Edge, or at least one of those dudes who walks around nightclubs making sure everybody has their shirt tucked in. As soon as I take them off, you can instantly tell I come from a two-parent home, that DMX lyrics give me nightmares and that I’m the kind of guy who can’t let the hooker leave without trying to spoon.

Sucks being shown up by your glasses. Girls see me walk up, can feel myself starting to get that curious-but-still-too-proud-to-look-directly peripheral eye contact
“Girl, who’s that? Dontlookdontlookdontlook! Maybe he’s in a band! Maybe he’s the one I’ve been saving this uterus for all these years! Maybe we should start making out with each other here on the street just to get his attention, he looks like he like team players…”
Take off the glasses
“Oh… it’s just you. Cool if we be friends for a while? Hey, before you answer that, can you hold my purse for a minute? Gotta take this call… Hi Derek! No it’s ok, I wouldn’t have called me back either, so when am I gonna see you again?”

Am now on a mission now to find ways to toughen up this Candyland Care Bear stare of mine. Not as easy as it sounds. Difficult to get that genuine I-may-have-murdered-some-of-my-own-loved-ones-what-do-you-think-I-won’t-do-to-yours gaze without going overboard in the process. Last Saturday I watched nothing but war movies and a Band of Brothers marathon. That helped a lot but for the next twelve hours I was paranoid every time I walked by a cluster of trees or bushes. How do you play off reflexively screaming “medic!” in the middle of a FedEx Kinko’s? Sunday morning I went to parade. If seeing a parade doesn’t make a man look ready to take lives, nothing will (Think the only way a grown man should be at a parade is if he’s actually IN the parade or the head of a family that’s dragged him to a parade; every other reason screams “watchlist” and “offender registry”). Wednesday I spent my lunch break staring directly into the sun. That worked pretty well, had a menacing squint that would’ve given Clint Eastwood night terrors, but I’ve since been informed that staring into the sun defeats the purpose of owning sunglasses. Looks like I’m on to plan D; become an 80’s fighter pilot and play volleyball with other dudes in my spare time. Look what you’ve brought me to, damn you Kenneth Cole. Damn you to hell. Next time my parents warn me about something I’m buying a hat.