Dear Diary,
During a recent trip to the city, I stopped by a stylish eyewear store in SoHo to buy sunglasses. I left with a pair of black wire frames.
“Just the frames?†the clerk said before running my credit card.
I lied: “I’ll order the prescription lenses later.â€
I didn’t need lenses. My eyes were close to 20/20. I only wanted the glasses.
To my surprise, the neighborhood’s elegance and youth had aroused my vanity. A sudden need to fit in overtook me, a desire to appear cooler, artier and more culturally influential than I am. I wanted the world to see how I felt: bookish, cerebral, literary, well read. Instead, I walked around that day viewing Manhattan through clear plastic lenses and feeling ridiculous.
I’m a bald 38-year-old who works retail and hasn’t had health insurance since 2006. Reading numerous books and magazines made me bookish. Writing made me literary. Wearing cosmetic frames made me a fraud. Even if a few subway commuters shot me interested glances as if falling for my hoax, I knew the truth.
The day before my flight home, I returned the frames. It was one of the more tawdry things I’ve done, but it was liberating. Exercise, regular haircuts, tailored clothes, a healthy diet â€" looking good matters. But if I couldn’t take myself seriously, my appearance seemed pointless.
My artifice wasn’t New York’s fault, it was my own. But the city helped me see the value of authenticity more clearly than any prescription glasses could.
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