The Future's So Bright

This edition of The State of the Union originally appeared on May 30, 2002.

Though that summer solstice thingy doesn’t roll around until June 21st (at 9:24 a.m. EDT, for those of you marking your calendars), in my book (soon to be published, look for it in stores), with Memorial Day now behind us and the whole you’re-free-to-wear-white-until-Labor-Day arrangement in effect, summer has officially begun.

And summer is sunglass season.

In all likelihood, this is why my friend recruited me to go shopping for sunglasses.

For most of my adult life, I avoided purchasing any pair of sunglasses that cost more than ten dollars.  This was because I lived in fear -- a fear, stoked annually by friends and acquaintances alike, that, despite whatever optical merits they might bring, a good pair of sunglasses was a foolish investment.  The adage went that once you’d purchased a pair of pricey shades, you would invariably sit on them, lose them, or accidentally throw them away, like a retainer on a school-cafeteria lunch tray.

Though I had not eaten in the school cafeteria in years, I nevertheless bought into this way of thinking, and for years I avoided making that big-ticket sunglass purchase.

While this meant denying myself the benefits of high-quality sun shading, it did encourage the romantic experience of buying cheap sunglasses.

In theory, cheap sunglasses are great.  To begin with, they’re cheap, and because you never care much about what happens to them or expect any sort of longevity from them, buying cheap sunglasses gives you the freedom to make a frivolous purchase.  Then, once those cheapies get lost, tossed or crushed, you can move on, sans emotional trauma or significant financial repercussions, to the next pair, enjoying once again the challenge of finding the perfect pair of bargain sunglasses on the discount rack.

The romance in this theory is that it promises a future of one impossibly cool pair of sunglasses after another, each one offering the same kind of guilty pleasure as a disposable summer pop song.  Sure, every pair is fated for premature death, but hey -- only the good die young.

Buying into this, then, I faithfully did my sunglass shopping at places like Wal-Mart, Target and CVS, taking great pride in staying under that sunglass Mendoza line of ten bucks.

Problem was, when it came to sunglasses, I wasn’t nearly reckless enough.  As was the case in many aspects of my life, I proved to be rather fastidious.

(Fastidious, in case you’re wondering, means particular, meticulous or painstaking.  I have chosen to use fastidious here rather than the term that might more commonly be used in this instance -- “anal retentive,” or more concisely, “anal” -- because I believe that the use of these latter terms often represents a misguided attempt to play pseudo-Freudian pop-psychologist, and also because, when I am referring to a person who, for example, balances his checkbook, keeps an organized daily planner or doesn’t lose, break or otherwise mangle his cheap sunglasses, I would prefer not to conjure images of that person’s tightened sphincter, especially when that person is me.)

Because of this fastidiousness, I would find myself stuck, summer after summer, with the same pair of cheap sunglasses, often ones that I didn’t really like all that much in the first place.

Finally, I broke down.  I decided the time had come; I had proven myself responsible, and, considering the money I’d saved by keeping the same pair of cheap sunglasses for years, I figured I’d earned it.  Plus, I was in Sydney, Australia, which wouldn’t have anything to do with anything except for the fact that if I was ever going to get away with gawking at the half-naked women sunning themselves at Sydney’s famed Bondi Beach, I needed a pair of very, very dark sunglasses.  With this in mind, I marched proudly into a nearby Sunglass Hut and plunked down $120 (Australian dollars; about $60 US) for a pair of extremely dark Nike sunglasses.  I even bought one of those little lens-cleaning cloths.

Murphy’s Law dictates that I would have lost, tossed or crushed these spiffy new shades within 48 hours.  But I have long scoffed at Murphy’s Law, and I’m happy to report that nearly two years later, I still own those same Nike sunglasses.*  Perhaps it was this accomplishment that persuaded my friend to bring me along for some sunglass-shopping advice and expertise.

Or perhaps she simply knew that buying a pair of sunglasses is not something one should do alone.  The sad reality is that it’s dishearteningly easy to walk out of a Walgreen’s wearing a godawful pair of brand-new shades that, though you’ve only been able to preview them in the postcard-sized mirror on the rotating display stand, you have convinced yourself are absolutely, perfectly you.

Usually, they are not you.  A friend can help prevent these egregious lapses in judgment.

And, when sunglass-shopping excursions take you to more upscale places than Walgreen’s, having company along also helps you defend yourself from the ever-dangerous sunglass salespeople.  As my friend decided to start her shopping at specialty sunglass establishments, she needed assistance in keeping these poachers at bay.

Our first stop was the Sunglass hut at the local mall.  Before we even entered the mall itself, I asked my friend what her spending limit was.  “Twenty-five dollars,” she declared resolutely.

“All right,” I said.  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

But I knew this would be no easy task, for I also knew that your average purveyor of fine tinted eyewear knows about the paltry preset spending limits people set before ever setting foot in their stores.  This is why you will find absolutely no sunglasses at Sunglass Hut for sale for anything less than fifty bucks.

See, these places operate under the assumption that even though you say you’re “just browsing,” you’ll find a pair of sunglasses you like.  They also know that while you may wander in thinking, “I want UVA and UVB protection,” before you know it you’ll be muttering to yourself, “Maybe I really do need polarized lenses.”

Not that you’ll actually understand what polarization means or anything.

While my friend and I learned the true meaning behind UVA, UVB and UVC (A prevents aging, B prevents burning and C prevents cancer -- supposedly), we never could get a straight answer on polarization.

“It reduces the glare off your face,” said one sunglass professional.

Said another, “It blocks out all the sun.”  Just like an eclipse, apparently.

Unswayed by all this fancy talk about polarization, and resisting the siren call of $70 Ralph Lauren sunglasses (“These are nice.  I would get them if they were fifteen dollars.”), my friend decided there was nothing for her at the high end of the sunglass spectrum.  We left the mall and headed for Target.

There we found not only a refreshing absence of locked cases and $150 Persol sunglasses (polarized, of course), but a wide selection of affordably-priced fashion eyewear, every pair comfortably under the $25 limit.

After a few minutes, my friend successfully found a stylish set of shades that looked strikingly similar to the $70 pair of Ralph Laurens we had seen earlier, but these could be had for the bargain price of ten dollars.  We had a winner.

As a bonus, we also definitively solved the riddle of what to do with the tag that invariably hangs from the bridge of any self-respecting pair of cheap sunglasses.

Leaving it dangling in front of the lenses is one option, as is pasting it to your forehead.  But in the end, we determined that tucking the tag behind one lens is the way to go.  As my friend so eloquently put it, “Sure, you risk scratching your cornea stuffing it back there, but how else are you going to see how you really look?”

* Those Nike sunglasses survived another two and a half years after this column was written before I accidentally crushed them and snapped the bridge in half.  But my confidence in quality sunglasses was so boosted that I went ahead and invested in another pair of Nike sunglasses, which are now almost a year and a half old.  So, if you need a pair of cheap sunglasses, let me know -- I still have a few lying around.  I could mail you a pair.