The Daddy Wears Prada

I picked up my new glasses today. It took the Italian elves two weeks to put them together, which is almost as long as the initial eye exam lasted. They’re Prada frames. There, I said it. I have a designer on my face because I’m just that much of a fashion maven. I just today read in Vogue that nothing goes with cargo shorts and a 5k T-shirt better than Prada specs. I think it was in Vogue, but it may have been in the liner notes to the newest Amy Winehouse album. Nevertheless, I feel like I need to live up to the frames, that the Prada People expect more of me, for me to be chic for the first time in my life. Or like I’m French kissing an architect. Regardless, I need to put my face out there with confidence, yet I feel I’m trapped somewhere between being a strutting, nearsighted peacock and that sixth-grade RJA sliding down in his desk chair when his mother appears at the classroom door with the uncoolest coat ever that he’d “forgotten” at home. This all seems somewhat confusing to me, and even more vain, but I know that what will win out in the end is the price tag. They cost me and Blue Cross/Blue Shield way too much money to not be worn proudly. So look out world because I’m strutting out there and I can finally see where the hell I’m going.