So, now that it’s officially August, and if you go into a store looking for shorts you’ll most likely be met with an incredulous “but those are out of season! We’re stocking fall now” (let it never be said that I am prompt in my necessary seasonal clothing buying), I have finally purchased a pair of prescription sunglasses. Yes, that does mean that for the majority of this sunny, sunny summer, rather than have my eyes protected but the world a little fuzzy, I have been wearing my glasses under a cheap straw fedora I got last summer (and which prompted Jeremy, the manager in our office, to say “well I guess that answers the eternal question “where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?”).
So to Moscot, the charming ‘been there since Delancey Street was the pickle capital of the world’ eye emporium on the lower East Side. And after much debate, I settled on the retro-esque ‘Vilda’ frames, seen here:
I picked them up in tortoiseshell, full of my paltry prescription, and lo, there was great rejoicing. Until, that is, I looked online and saw my fellow Moscot Vilda-wearers:
And while I am very happy to be in the company of these stylin’ ladies, I’m a bit embarrassed. You see, nobody told me that if you’re going to wear these sunglasses, you apparently can’t wear a shirt.