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Down the Hatchet

Myopic Misery

By Akshay Patil

I have this new pair of glasses that no one seems to like.

I mean, I think they look great. All my life I’ve worn unstylish Coke bottles for glasses -- with this pair, I really felt like I finally had a pair of stylish coke bottles to rest upon the bridge of my nose.

Perhaps the problem is that I usually don’t wear coke bottles at all. Thanks to the amazingly fantastic genius invention of toric soft contact lenses, I’ve been able to reduce geekiness levels to normal (ok, ok, above normal ... fine, nowhere-near-normal-but-still-quite-an-improvement-you-have-to-agree), despite this funny condition I have that involves my eyes being halfway on their little journey to legal blindness.

But you know, once in a while, it’s good to make sure the glasses are up to date. So over winter break I went in search of a few good frames. It was during this quest that I should have learned my lesson and left the whole matter alone. But then, I wouldn’t be writing this column, now would I? I would probably be rambling off about goldfish and mayonnaise or something. Anyways.

Apparently I have an angular face. Apparently, only women have angular faces. I base these assertions based on the fact that not a single frame in the men’s section looked good on me. Not a single one. I tried them all. I quested all.

You want to know which frames looked good on me? The ones in the women’s section. I excrement you not. I was so emasculated I was ready to burst out into big girly tears. At least they weren’t purple frames, I definitely wouldn’t be writing this column if they were purple.

Anyways, after much frame (and soul) searching, I found my way into a special section of miscellaneous frames. Therein lied my salvation--a non-feminine (masculine, I swear) pair of glasses that looked good on me. And a little piece of me was saved.

So I finally had glasses that (I thought) looked good on me. My sister even agreed. I could put them on and look smart. If I shaved, I could even look sophisticated. I was heady with narcissistic pleasure.

Naturally I wanted to unleash my newfound suaveness upon the unsuspecting public, so I took to wearing my glasses more often during the day. In particular, I decided to wear them during The Tech’s annual banquet last week.

Trust those bastards to take the tiny scrap of a little thing called “my dignity” and shred it into many smaller scraps of a thing called “my dignity.”

“Why are you wearing glasses?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. ... I’m just not used to you wearing glasses.”

“Do they look weird?”

“No, no ... they make you look more Indian though.”

“What? My glasses make me look more Indian?”

“Yeah, you know, Indian-er. Yeah, they kinda make you look old too.”

“Wait, I look old now?”

“You know, you kind of look like a nice Indian dad.”

“Hold on, so you’re saying that I look like I’ve procreated?”

“No, no, just, you know, like you’re in that general age range”


“I guess”

Did people compliment the suit? No. (Well, you know, except for the few who commented that it was a trip seeing me in something other than a free t-shirt.) They all just looked straight through my anti-reflective coating and told me how disconcerting my four eyes were. They thrust their hands into my chest, pulled out my beating heart, and stomped on it. Then they lit it on fire and chanted satanic verses. I was emotionally crippled and, you know, sort of dead -- physically though, not metaphorically. Only one thing salvaged my sanity.

At least no one said I looked like a middle-aged mom.