The Curse

The curse continues.

Every time I come to New York City, my glasses break not long thereafter: the first time was with my family in middle school, and my glasses snapped in half. I wore them with taped up along the middle, a la uber-geek style.

The second time was with my choir cohorts my junior year as part of the annual trip. That year, New York City was chosen, and — what I assumed to be a mild coincidence — the screw came out of right side of my glasses as I sat down for a production of La Boheme, directed by Baz Luhrmann. I held the glasses in place for the next three two hours, and we found a small optometrist’s office somewhere around 43rd and 5th the next day.

I finally realized that this was no mere accident during the summer of my sophomore year when Iris and I planned a trip to Manhattan. Like clockwork, one day before I departed for the trip, my glasses broke (right side, snapped) and had to be taped up once again. A summer later during my internship at Ogilvy, my lenses popped out and I spent the next three months popping them back in on a weekly basis until I got new glasses.

So, as I made my preparations for my viage to New York, I ordered an extra pair of glasses before I left. For a while, I kept the extra pair on hand, bracing for what I assumed would be an unavoidable occurrence. After almost a month, lulled into a false sense of security, I actually thought I was in the clear and suspended that practice (carrying an extra pair of glasses if annoying when you have a small handbag).

I’m sure you can guess what I’m going to say now. So, for the record, last friday, after our annual Legal Assistant Party in a club called No Malice Palace, the screws came out on the right side of my glasses as I was chatting with Patrick and Dave. Dave was nice enough to walk home with me so I didn’t get hit by car. And so it goes.