Carol Van Oss had the coolest glasses. I secretly admired them as I gazed down the row at her in our second grade class. They were pink cats' eyes with sparkly things in the corners. I wanted them. I coveted them.
The Pruiksma twins had glasses too. But they were coke bottley nerdy things. No cool rhinestone shooting stars in the corners.
I can remember Carol's glasses with great detail. But not how I injured my eye. Somehow a scissors came in contact with my eye and my mom took me to the doctor. This was one of the doctors from the Jewish hospital where she worked. She would always ask for a professional discount and still hold her purse tightly and sigh when hearing the price.
The doctor examined my eye and said there had been a slight injury. Emphasis on slight. He had me read the eye chart. Here's my big chance, I thought. I purposely blurred my vision and pretended I couldn't distinguish the letters. Would I get pink glasses or blue glasses? Color didn't matter so much as long as they had sparkly things in the corners.
My mother watched anxiously as I failed to read the chart, sure I was going blind. The doctor began muttering agitatedly and told my mother there was nothing wrong with my sight. We left without a prescription and the ride home was silent.
Why couldn't I tell her about sparkly things? Maybe she could have gotten me a cheap pair of dime store sunglasses and that would have scratched my itch.
Now I wear glasses all the time. But none have sparkly corners.
