Last week, I arrived at the Marriott, where I was staying courtesy of the publishers of the textbook I co-author. Tired, I popped out my contact lenses and reached for my glasses' case. Opened it up--horrors, no glasses. Arriving home several days later, I hunted high and low. No glasses. Contacted my mom, sister, and niece, all of whom had hosted me in the week before the Marriott trip. No glasses.
Damn. Am leaving in a couple of days for five weeks in Europe. Need glasses. Glasses are expensive, as they sport "graduated" lenses--no telltale bifocal line and the promise of clear near, medium, and far vision. (Point of fact: they only actually work for distance, and then only kinda, but if I lose a contact lens in the bogs of Ireland, the glasses are all that stand between me and utter fuzziness.) Am panicking.
Am about to give up, call up eye doctor folks for prescription, and fork up hundreds of dollars for new glasses. But happen to say to Hugh, "Hey, you haven't seen my glasses, you know, my real glasses, not my reading glasses, have you?"
Hugh says, "Just a sec." A minute later, he appears, my glasses in his hand. I'm delighted. I'd kiss him if he'd only let me. Instead, I gush and gloop. "Oh honey, you're my hero. Thank you thank you thank you. I can't believe you found them. What a relief. . . " and on and on. Hugh smiles and nods, like he's on the podium at the Oscars.
Then I think to ask, "Where were they? I thought I looked everywhere. How did you find them?"
And he says, "Oh, I knocked them off the end table by the tv a couple of weeks ago and then kicked them under the couch."
As one does.
If one is 16.
And male.
Evidently.
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