In the U District, written on a frat boy’s shirt following several Greek letters: “Handing out more beatings than people hand out letters.”
I’m trying to pick out a new pair of glasses. I hadn’t been to the eye doctor in six years and I learned some interesting things about my eyes. I’ve had “reading glasses” since I was 13. I used to get horrible headaches when staring at the computer screen or reading. I just learned that my eyes focus on far away stuff using a very tiring method. Instead of processing light like everyone else, my eyes exert all sorts of unnecessary energy in order for me to see in the distance. Eventually my eyes will tire, and when I’m forty I will start needing to wear glasses all the time. In the meantime, I don’t really need my glasses to focus on close up reading; rather I need them to help my eyes relax. Of course there is all sorts of medical jargon I’m leaving out, (like the actual names of my eye parts), but that’s the basic sum up. I learned that my right eye is worse than my left. I learned that to get a cool pair of glasses they cost a lot…or do they? How much should a good pair of frames cost? Where should I go? It should also be noted that my father has been long impressed by the stellar eyesight of my siblings and I. He started wearing glasses at 6.
I had a moment today where I looked at myself walking by a window and thought: “God, I look ridiculous.” It’s funny how clothes can do that to you…at one point I thought the Keens combined with denim capris was pretty smashing. Not so today…or maybe it’s just that combination. Let me tell you, I think it’s this crappy job I’ve been hanging on to–barely–by a thread. Last Wednesday I worked with a Chronic Complainer–this time it was about her back pain, last week the topic of complaint was the stinky smell of garlic fries ingested 24 hours ago that would just NOT go away. (You’d think that after she swore for the tenth time she would ‘never eat them again’ that would be the last of it). I keep trying to be so shiny and happy, like if I force myself into this silly smile I’ll somehow believe it. I bite my tongue and force all the mean things I want to say back inside my throat. Example: Me: “These tights are sized Youth Junior, why does it say 2-4 on the store tag?” Manager: “(Sigh) That was Rachel….she got confused….I HATE that company, their size chart is SO CONFUSING, stupid French Canadians and their sizing…” In my head I was thinking: “That’s all fine and good, but c’mon…who the hell cares, let’s just get this job done correctly and stop complaining.” But it went without resolution, because I can’t officially change anything in the computer…and the job never got done. I can’t tell you how that rubs me the wrong way…I actually find myself coming across mismarked stuff and not bothering to change it because of my newly budding “poor work ethic.” Recently I had a second interview with a certain high end designer store on 5th Ave. The women there are flawless, work on commission, and fantastically driven. I’m totally ready to exercise my retail chops in the high end market…we’ll see. I’m sure it would present a whole new set of problems (my shabby wardrobe for starters), but anything is better than what I have right now. OK, so that’s not true. On the bus ride home I watched four guys on four corners of the street hold mortgage broker signs and wave to passing cars. They were waving mechanically, as if they had been told sternly: “Look you must wave…no matter what. The sign could be crooked or held at an angle, but you have to wave the entire time.”