THESE ARE MY FUCKING SUNGLASSES:
LOOK AT MY FUCKING SUNGLASSES:
LOOK AT HOW HAPPY MY FUCKING SUNGLASSES MAKE ME:
These sunglasses are a part of me. Oakley Oil Rigs. They were given to me by a co-worker almost 6 years ago(shout out to Mike), and since then I haven’t gone anywhere without them. I loose, and then subsequently find them almost monthly. I have repaired them with super glue so many times that by this point their more adhesive than eye wear. I can tell you every detail about them; how the little metal Oakley logos on the side are, unlike the rest of the plastic frame, made of precision cut steel(the black coating is starting to scuff off), you can’t really see out of the left lens because it’s been scratched over and over again. If you examine them closely the designs start to look pixelated, and they are always lighter to pick up than you expect them to be.
My friends HATE my sunglasses. I once thought I had lost them for good because they had hidden them from me, for 6 months. Now look, I know they aren’t stylish, and I know that when I have them on I look like the douchebag version of robocop. They’re tight on my nose, and because they’re a little small for my ginormous head, they pinch just behind my ears when I wear them. While they may have once been cool, they are now dated and worse for wear from years of hard use. They are not, objectively, good sunglasses.
There are plenty of reasons as to why I formed such a strong bond with these glasses. I was 19 when I was given them, and a pair of genuine Oakleys was something way out of my price range. For awhile they were likely the most expensive thing I owned(technology not withstanding), and as the fiscally irresponsible man I am, I don’t often get to own expensive things. So there was pride there in a way.
When I was fourteen, I went on life-changing trip to New Zealand through my summer camp(it’s how I got to be back there today), and one of the leaders of that trip, who quickly became a mentor of mine, had this very same pair of of sunglasses, so, naturally, I wanted to have them too. As it turns out however, Oakleys are not generally an item unemployed 15-year-olds can afford. So I wistfully lusted after the make and model as day after day went by. Years later, when I got them, it felt like validation, like I too was now an adult, someone who could mentor others, and these glasses were my badge of office. They became a tangible symbol for an intangible feeling.
I think everyone has something like this; an item that becomes intertwined with their story. Backpacks, water bottles, hats, jackets, as I’ve noticed they tend to be things we have on our person, things that move with us, experience things with us. We imbue a piece of our consciousness into these items and the thought of losing them becomes devastating. Their our adult safety blankets. They become integral in our visual identity. Even as something inanimate, they take on a sort of personality; you can see memories in them, they draw back latent emotions, and become a time machine of sorts, spiriting you back into your own past. As they take on wear, build up scratches and scars, they accumulate their own history, becoming the same kind of tapestry your body is. Its materialism in its most pure, unabashedly positive form.
So to whatever your own object is, its your in the same way that THESE ARE MY FUCKING SUNGLASSES.