All of sudden, every guy I meet is obsessed with my glasses and what they mean about my self-perception. In fact, they mean that I can’t see, but that’s too simple an explanation. (I totally sympathize with this. I prefer things to be as convoluted and dramatic as possible, involving multiple affairs, scandalous gossip and general bad behavior. “I can’t see”? Feh.)
Last night, not one but two guys asked me about my glasses. The second guy? Was the only straight dude in a gay bar. The bar was so gay, it literally smelled like creatine. The dude was so straight, he was wearing a doorag with dollar bills stapled to it. I wish I could make this stuff up, but I’m merely reporting the facts.
“I like the gays, you know?” he said. “I used to run a gay club. My sister is a lesbian. I know lots of gay people.”
This was a longer version of Some of My Best Friends Are Gay than I’m used to hearing, but I nodded politely.
“Now I gotta ask you to take off those glasses and let me see those pretty eyes.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“No? Aw, c’mon.”
“No, no. I don’t think it would be wise. I wouldn’t want to be responsible.”
Earlier in the evening, a guy came up to me at a party and announced, no word of a lie, that I was very attractive, but he didn’t think that I knew it.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I told him. “I know. This doesn’t happen by accident, you know.”
I don’t think he got the joke, because he kept on going.
“See, it’s those glasses. That’s how I can tell. They’re thicker than they need to be, like they’re saying ‘don’t look at me. I’m not pretty.'”
“Actually, they’re for your protection,” I said, slugging back half a glass of Bud. “Will you excuse me? I seem to be out of beer.”
Now, don’t get me wrong. Everyone likes to be told that they’re pretty. (Except guys, maybe. I’ve gotten one or two guys ril pissed at me by calling them pretty. “Handsome” is cool. “Hot” is better. “Pretty” is the verbal equivalent of freezing cold water.)
Anyway, the sudden obsession with my eyewear is very odd.