Andrew's Eyewear

         Andrew tried and tried, but nothing was right. Nothing seemed to fit him — or he seemed to fit nothing. As he stared at his naked body in the mirror and the clothes of his wardrobe strewn about the bedroom behind him, his mind wandered into a typical trip to the thrift store.

         There, he would rummage through the racks and racks of clothing – in the smallest section, of course – flipping through each hanger until something caught his eye — something blue, something striped, something soft. . .  He would be frantic, excited — within a half-hour, the cart would be overflowing with jeans, sweaters, shirts, and shoes.

         There were so many nice things to be discovered or uncovered at the thrift store. He especially loved the sweaters because on most occasions they would actually fit, which was rare with other articles of clothing – especially jeans! Most of his pile consisted of the sweaters. Why? He did not know. Most of them ended up back on the rack anyway. Particularly, the ones that didn't fit, or the red ones.

         He remembered one red sweater that he had tried on recently at the thrift store. It had fit perfectly. He wondered if there was a sweater at home – or in the whole world – that fit better than that.

         Nope. There wasn't. But red wasn't his color; red clashed with his hazel eyes and brown hair.

         He knew that that red sweater must look nice on somebody in the world, and sometimes he became so sick of having to discard so many beautiful sweaters for such trivial shit that he considered buying them all anyway, just to hang onto until he found that somebody who fit that sweater. Maybe that's what intrigued him about the sweaters – that there was a perfect somebody out there for every sweater that didn't fit him. To find that person to wear that sweater would make him just as happy as if it had fit his own body. He was just too damn long and thin.

         Although a lot of the initial pile was returned to the rack, he always managed to find something that fit just right. He would look into the mirror at each thing he tried on, and either cry or smile. Searching through used clothes and trying them on in the dressing room was like a roller coaster ride, or perhaps a trip to the cinema to see a dramedy — but with a hell of a lot more light.

         The florescent bulb that lit the tight room cut him like a razor by accentuating his slightest flaws:  facial blemishes, frizzy hair, dark freckles, tired eyes, this and that.

         But now, in his dimly lit bedroom, shades drawn, he at least felt warm like the fox in his den during the dead of winter, and safe like a murderer returning to the scene of his crime for good measure. But the enthusiasm that he had had on thrift store days was far away. Things that looked fantastic in the store, things that he wore for days and weeks, were now wrong. Everything was wrong. The jeans that he wore almost every day of a week were too tight this morning, his other pair too loose. The neck of the undershirt that he normally wore was somehow stretched out today, and awkwardly peeking out from his collar. And each sweater or long-sleeve shirt that he tried each had it's own minor yet menacing flaw — the sleeves of the orange sweater that he liked were just too high enough to deem it unwearable; the striped lamb's wool sweater that everyone loved was baggy at the armpits; the gray L.L. Bean sweater that made many-a first impression was now making clear how horribly broad his shoulders were. Everything was ugly.

         So he took it all of. He stood in the middle of the room wearing only his socks, feeling as anxious as he did in the dressing room of the thrift store. But now he wasn't choosing what to buy or what he could afford. He was choosing what to wear to school for that today and it was a decision that seemed like life or death. If he couldn't find something fit to wear, he might never step outside. It had happened once before, and lasted a week.

         “My hair looks OK,” he said. He walked to one of the windows in the room and pulled the curtain back. It was a beautiful spring day — he could hear the birds calling him, feel the sun's warmth on his face, almost smell the grass and the trees through the glass. Why can't I be as beautiful as the day? He opened all of the curtains in the room, let the light in, and returned to the mirror.

         “This is fucking ridiculous,” he mumbled as he hurried to put his briefs and jeans on. The lower half of his body was clothed. These look OK. Now what?

         He knew that there were over 20 t-shirts hanging in his closet, but as he gazed in the mirror at the scars on his arm, he knew that today was not the day for short sleeves. But he put on a short-sleeve anyway — the nice salmon colored one that he had been longing to be able to wear again someday. He loved it. I'm wearing this.

         He knew just what to do — how to be able to wear the nice salmon t-shirt and long-sleeves at the same time. He retrieved the blue cardigan that was draped over the desk chair and put it on.

         That looks all right, he thought. He even put his Converse shoes on for finality.

         “Good,” he said. “I think.” Something wasn't right.

         Suddenly he collapsed to the floor and began to cry. He cried and cried until there were no tears left to fall. He dragged himself onto the bed and pulled the covers up to his neck. An hour passed as he stared at his beaten face in the mirror across the room. He was another hour late for school and now sweaty from having lain in bed fully clothed.

         Just as he was making the decision never to leave the house again, something on the desk caught his eye – a glint – and he had an idea. It was something that would complete the days outfit. His sunglasses. They were such a simple piece of eyewear – not the round flamboyant type, or the John Lennon aviator type, or the pretentiously oblong type — just a relatively thick, black frame with dark, reflective lenses the size and shape of a toddler's fist.

         But what a difference they made! He fled from the entanglement of bedsheets and flew to the desk to put the sunglasses on and thus complete his outfit. He gazed out the window from behind his classy shades. I can feel just as warm and as good as the morning. He closed the curtains and returned to the mirror to see the latest addition to his outfit.

         He noticed something special about the sunglasses. They could protect him in more ways than he could count. Mainly, they would protected him from the eyes of others – concealing his occasional tears or forcing people to turn away at the sight of their own reflection on his face. This was enough to get him to school that day.

         So he took everything else off – the cardigan, the salmon shirt. He didn't care about the scars on his arm or the birthmark above his nipple or his protruding clavicles. He took off his jeans and his underwear, too. Now that looks pretty nice, he thought. I have no problem with that. He left his Converse on for finality and put some Chapstick on his tear-salted lips. He was ready to go.

         He packed his schoolbag, threw it over his shoulder, and went out through the front door. Standing on the stairs, he let himself – his bare self – be enveloped by the warmth and calm of the day. He proceeded to the car, selected an old Emmylou Harris tune from his iPod, and drove off toward the sun to school with nothing to cover him but the dark sunglasses and a positive attitude. He felt as new and as beautiful and as visible as the spring day before him.