OK, this morning I visited my friendly Opthalmologist. He’s a great guy, and has kept me from wearing my coke-bottle glasses forever. I love him for it, he makes me look good. Or maybe he just makes me see good. Whatever.
But as I left, with a script for new specs in hand, I stopped in at the Opticians next door. I visited with this delightful man, and handed him my script. He looked it over, paused, and looked me dead in the eyes. “You’ve worn glasses your entire life, isn’t that right, sir?” I smiled, and told him that yes I have, ever since I was 3 years old. And they were freaking heavy coke bottles that instantly placed me in the nerd category.
He eventually led me to a very attractive titanium frame, and selected the latest in light, high density, nerd-minimizing lenscraft. I just smiled, because all along I knew he was trying to make this feel, and look, as fashionable as possible. He wanted me to look good. One problem. I’m no fashion plate. But as my good friend was checking on insurance, delivery dates and such, I was wandering around the store. And I noticed something.
All of the advertisements for the higher end eye-wear stressed that if I wore their frames, I’d be hot. Not just warm to the touch, but barn burnin’, hunka-hunka burnin’ love, smokin’ hot. You can see it in the picture I took above while looking at frames. Optician-man was amused that I had interrupted the proceedings to take this photo. Good, because this thought was already forming in my mind.
“Dangit, I once was that hot. About 30 years ago. And I don’t think glasses will do it for me…”
But look at this woman’s instinctual response. The dude is ice cold, slicked back hair, and sporting those over-sized aviators. And she’s melting in his arms, about to lose herself.
Then it hit me. Hey, I use Paul Mitchell conditioner, and wear over-sized aviators.
Uh, but I wear them to keep the sun out of my eyes, very practical. And while I am not over-the-hill, or dead yet, I just wouldn’t want a woman hanging on me like that, eyes closed and lost in love (ok, that’s a lie, just a damnable lie). But I would like to look cool. Not. But the definition of cool changes. I’m 52, and cool is relative. Now I’m just happy that I don’t have a pot-belly, and am able to get out of bed in the morning without grunting, groaning or accidentally passing gas. And in 20 years, my best set of eye-wear may well look more like this.
A dog, wearing aviators. Now he’s really cool, and would help maintain my swagger… and get across the street without being run over. And if I took him to the park with a red bandanna around his neck, all the sweet young things would come flocking to us. And hopefully, I’ll have a hot late 60-year-old woman next to me, who would be able to see and love those little girls like they truly deserve.
At some point in life, your dog becomes hotter than you are. Should become hotter than you are.
Every dog must have his day.
“I’m too sexy for my leash, too sexy for my leash…”
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