“The sunglasses were a glaring fashion error”

The sunglasses were a glaring fashion error

Posted: 01 Aug 2010 01:37 AM PDT

The display of sunglasses right by the front door shimmered in bright colors, plaids and florals, neon and glitter.

And they were all big enough to fit over my regular glasses.

I was trying on a huge plaid pair when my daughter turned from the rack of shirts on sale and caught me peering into a little mirror.

"No, Mom," she said automatically.

"What?" I asked. "These are great!"

"Don't do it. Just don't do it."

I frowned at her, but the sunglasses covered half of my face and the effect was wasted.

Yes, I was in Urban Outfitters, a store I don't usually consider a hotspot of fashion for the over-50 set. Moreover, even my 17-year-old daughter doesn't set foot in here unless they're having a big sale.

But I loved these sunglasses. And I was really tired of having to squint everywhere I went.

If I still wore contact lenses, I could wear sunglasses in any shape, shade or size. I'd grab a few pair and stash them in various places for whenever I needed them.

But my eyes are now too dry or too thin or too something else that I can no longer remember for contacts. I long ago dispensed with the complicated process of sliding tiny pieces of plastic over my eyeballs.

Clip-on sunglasses never stay on my glasses, and my eyes change too frequently (thank you, bifocals) to invest in prescription sunglasses.

The incomprehensible resurgence of interest in 1960s style a la Jackie Kennedy and "Mad Men" has brought back big sunglasses, among other regrettable fashion items. No longer the province of the bizarrely dressed Olson twins, they're everywhere.

They were ugly then and they are ugly now, but they're big enough to hide a multitude of sins, starting with my bifocals.

At my daughter's insistence, I returned the plaid pair to the rack, but then I discovered the florals.

They were all lovely. Checking over my shoulder to make sure she wasn't paying attention, I slipped on a pair covered with lavender and pink blossoms and gazed at my reflection.

"These are fabulous," I said out loud, no doubt confirming my image as a doddering nincompoop let loose in the wrong store.

"What are you doing?" my daughter asked as I moved toward the register.

"What does it look like?" I asked, defiant.

To her relief, it was already past dusk and too dark for sunglasses.

"Tomorrow," I promised.

Despite my bid for independence, I wasn't entirely certain about the new purchase.

After all, she had been absolutely right in the matter of the fanny pack, saving me from public humiliation when I unwisely tried to trade in my purse a couple of years ago.

So, as I wore my new flowery sunglasses around, I began to ask for opinions.

My husband was noncommittal, commenting only that they seemed a little big to him. After questioning the need for sunglasses at all, my son suggested that I wear them only when I was driving — and not when I was driving with him.

One friend liked them; another raved about them.

I wore them here and there, mainly in the car but sometimes walking along the sidewalk or the street.

No one around seemed to flinch or throw up an arm in horrified self-defense.

Then I went out to lunch with two friends.

After we finished eating, I fished the glasses out of my purse and slid them on.

"What do you think of these?" I asked. "Please be honest."

They were.

"Those are hideous," said Friend No. 1 flatly, with the very honesty I had requested.

Friend No. 2 was more circumspect but similarly unimpressed.

"Really," I said, marveling that once again I had managed to find myself so completely on the wrong side of the sartorial divide.

A photograph was taken with a cell phone and sent to Friend No. 1's 12-year-old daughter for consultation.

Even I knew this was going to end badly.