White Sunglasses
In 1992, I decided that I needed sunglasses. Not the cheap-ass sunglasses I’d been pulling off the racks at Target every couple of months or so. I needed quality sunglasses this time around. Cool sunglasses. Yes.
So I went to Sunglass Hut in the mall and picked out the biggest, plastic-est, whitest sunglasses I could find and plunked down an exorbitant amount of money and walked out of there feeling pretty damn hip (PDH).
Let me just pause here, then, to summarize:
- These sunglasses were white. Very white. Celebrity teeth white.
- I thought they were pretty damn hip (PDH).
- I am male.
And so, equipped with my white sunglasses, I ventured out into the world. And there was much merriment.
None of which I noticed, of course. I don’t usually notice very much. And besides, the PDH don’t notice things; things notice them.
I got my first inkling of the true state of affairs a couple of days later. I was in the car with my friend J. I reached into the glove to pull out my shining alabaster sunglasses and put them on.
There was a silence. It was a very heavy silence, fraught with something I couldn’t quite identify. I looked over at J, who was looking at me with an expression so rich with emotion that it reminded me of the pattern of some fantastically complex Persian rug.
I frowned. “What?”
More silence. Then, very quietly, he said: “What the hell are those?”
“What are what?”
“Those things on your face.” Still calm, reasonable. No more than mildly inquisitive.
“Sunglasses,” I said. “They shield my eyes from the sun.”
“They’re white.”
“Yeah.” My PDH-based obliviousness filters started to strain a little. “So?”
“White sunglasses. That you’re wearing.”
“I like white.”
More silence. We drove on. Then: “It’s possible to like white without wearing white sunglasses.”
“Lots of things are possible.”
“They are. Let me restate it, then. It’s probably a good idea to like white without wearing white sunglasses.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Let me restate it one more time. Are you out of your fucking mind??!?“
“You don’t like my sunglasses.”
“Dude! They’re white!”
“I like them.”
“Take them off. Please.”
“No. What’s wrong with white?”
“Seriously. I have a reputation to worry about. What if someone sees you and then sees me? I’ll be the guy who hangs out with the guy who wears white sunglasses.”
“Look, I can’t be held responsible for your narrow fashion sense.”
“I’d say you were committing social suicide, but that would be like telling a corpse it’s committing real suicide.”
“Ha.” I looked over at him. “Ha.”
“Come on, man. Think of the children.”
I stuck to my guns. The sunglasses stayed on.
They came off shortly afterwards, though, when my then-fiance came back from Peace Corps, and saw them, and threatened pre-marital divorce.
They’re in a drawer, somewhere, to this day, gathering dust, waiting for the fashion world to wake up to the indomitable hipness of white.
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