The Glasses

A couple of years back, when I needed new glasses, I decided to buy them on one of those Two for One deals, from an optical place that was part of a supermarket chain.

The price was good, they were a reasonably current style, and, best of all, the girl there told me they would be repaired or replaced “for any reason” within the first year after purchase.  I thought I would be smart and pay a little extra for the Crizal lenses that are supposed to be super scratch resistant.

Bonus:  she was a pretty attractive and pleasant person as well.

I have to say here that I am really hard on glasses.  I seldom, if ever, keep them in their case, and usually either slip them into my pocket or leave them on the car seat to be sat upon.

Incident number one involved the complete destruction of one pair by leaving them on the stairs and having my wife step on them.  She said sorry, but of course it was not her fault.  Off I went to the point of purchase, and they determined that a replacement was in order.  They were as good as their word, and, within a week, I had a new pair at no charge.

The second mishap was the loss of another pair.  I had been on a fairly long drive down to the city, and I knew I had the glasses with me when I left.  Got back home, no glasses.  Started to panic, and mentally retraced all of my steps that morning, which included a stop at McDonald’s for lunch.  I remembered eating lunch in the car, putting all of the garbage into one bag, and disposing of it in their bin.  Like a thunderbolt, it hit me that I had likely left the glasses on the seat and had shoveled them into the bag with all the garbage.  An hour later, I was back at the scene of the crime.  Went to the counter and explained to one of the ladies that I was going to look through their garbage, and for her not to be alarmed.

She turned out to be another very pleasant and helpful person, saying “no, don’t do that.  I will put on some gloves and empty it for you”.  So she did, and, sure enough, they were there, with salt, vinegar, and ketchup on them.  I was so grateful and embarrassed that I just wanted to take them and leave, but she took them inside and cleaned them up for me.

Forward to a few months later, when I was leaving a friend’s place after a band practice.  Was loading my equipment back into my car, and set my glasses down on the trunk lid in order to open the back door.  You know what happened next.

Did the half hour drive home, and couldn’t find them.  Thunderbolt number 2.  Phoned my friend to see if the glasses were in their driveway, but no.  Drove all the way back, and scanned the roadsides as I neared their place.  Providence was with me, and I spotted them on the highway.  All bent, with one lens hopelessly gouged.

Back to the attractive girl at the optical place, who was beginning to get familiar with me.  Free pair number 2.

One of the really funny parts about getting old is that you can’t remember what you did five minutes ago.  At least two or three times a week, I am wandering around the house trying to find the stupid things.  The most memorable of these occasions was when my wife said “what are you looking for?”.  When I said “my glasses”, she laughed.  They were on my head.

 

 

 

 

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