How I Came to Own the World's Ugliest Sunglasses

I used to have nice sunglasses. I really did. I studied magazines with articles on your face shape and which frames fit it best. I even followed trends. (Yes, there was a period when I wanted to look a little too much like Mary J. Blige, but I cannot help it that she had kick-ass highlights and sunglasses at the time.) I even, shock of all shocks, had a carrying case for my glasses.

Of course, these sunglasses weren't cheap. I was willing to spend $80, even $90, for a great pair of sunglasses. ($100 was my line in the sand.) But, I reasoned that it was totally worth it for something I wore every day. Even if you only counted the three months of summer, I was spending no more than $1.00 each day to protect my pupils and look awesome. (A lot of my thinking was and is like taking the tactics of the Christian's Children's Fund and applying it to clothing and housewares purchases. Sad, but true.)

Inevitably, though, I would soon break or lose these sunglasses. I have sat on sunglasses (despite having a carrying case, it's not like I ever remembered to use it), left them on boats, dropped them in the water, abandoned them on store counters, crushed them under the weight of all the other nonsense I carry in my purse -- just to name a few of my glasses' unfortunate ends.

And, each and every time, I was heartbroken that the purchase I'd devoted so much time to ended in disaster.

That's when I came up with a plan: Each time I destroyed a pair of sunglasses, I had to punish myself by buying cheaper sunglasses the next time. I figured that this line of thinking would eventually teach me to appreciate and care for the sunglasses that I had. I would learn to love them and take care of them -- like a child who has to learn responsibility for a puppy.

The way this actually played out, the next-to-last pair of sunglasses that I owned came from the Dollar General.

Rather than learning anything about taking care of nice things (I apologize to all those pretty white shirts I lost to red wine, too), in the span of a few years, I went from $80 sunglasses to the $2 variety. And trust me when I say that it's hard to go much lower than $2 when it comes to purchasing sunglasses.

While I tried to work out my new dilemma (can you really wear Dollar Tree sunglasses?), I was temporarily sunglasses-less. (One pair was at the bottom of a river after a kayaking adventure, and another was crushed under the weight of some Lowe's purchases.)

Sunglasses-less, I was driving down to the lake for Labor Day weekend when I realized that these baby blues of mine would never survive a weekend in the Alabama sun without some kind of protection.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you find yourself shopping for new eye wear at a BP station in Childersburg, Alabama.

Unable to reasonably demote myself to a price of less than $2, I decided that if I was going to have BP sunglasses, I should have the worst BP sunglasses there were. Why pretend you bought your glasses anywhere other than the gas station? It's not like it won't be obvious. (Kind of like when someone tells you they're wearing an old bridesmaid dress to some non-wedding function and you act surprised even though you're not.)

So, I introduce you to the white, knock-off Ed Hardy (knock-off Ed Hardy?!?!) sunglasses I've been wearing for most of September.

Or, as a friend more adequately described them this past weekend, "Is that Laurel in the tacky glasses?"

Maybe one day I really will learn to take care of my things. Unfortunately, the open Diet Pepsi perched tediously close to this laptop begs to differ.