Alexa Babin

June 28, 2020

The other day, my roommate asked to borrow a pair of sunglasses. We were about to head to the beach. She said she lost hers. Johanna doesn’t lose things often, but I believed her. Only because I believed her and love her deeply did I comply with her request. Because here’s the thing—I love my sunglasses.

When I was younger, I had a collection of sunglasses. Just to the right of my bedroom door was a little white stand with four pastel colored canvas drawers. In the third drawer lived my sunglasses collection. I couldn’t tell you exactly when the obsession started, but before I knew it I had at least fifteen pairs of glasses sitting in that little canvas drawer. I had pairs for all occasions. The small silver ones were for beach trips. The big blue ones were for summer camp. The red aviator style ones for trips with friends. The ones my mom ordered in bulk for my Hollywood-themed 13^th birthday party were tacky, so those never saw the light of day. Over the years, I’d beg and beg and beg my parents to buy me sunglasses on nearly every trip where it was feasible I might need a pair.

“I forgot to pack mine!” I’d plead. Most of the time, it was true. I’d forgotten. Probably because I never had the proper sunglasses case to suit me.

I was terrified of bringing my beloved sunglasses out into the world in a packed bag because I just knew they’d get broken. Someone might sit on them, or they’d get crushed under another bag in the car on the way to our destination. I could always wear them on my head, but then the frames would get stretched out. I could slip them on the neck of my shirt, but what if I bent over and they fell off and cracked or got scratched and that was the end? I couldn’t bear it. So I forgot.

I offered Johanna a pair of my sunglasses that I wear from time to time. They used to be my go-to pair, but I’ve since retired them from active duty. They live on my desk where I can easily grab them if I’m going out for a stroll and I know they’ll look good with that particular outfit. The frame’s a sort of tortoise shell pattern with reflective blue lenses. They look very California if you ask me.

When I got to thinking about it, I realized there was only one reason I could lend that pair of glasses to Johanna for our beach day. They were a replacement pair.

My parents and I went to Italy a few summers ago as a big, celebratory trip. I had just graduated college, was about to turn 22, and they had been married for 25 years. It seemed like enough reasons to take a big trip to commemorate the season we were in. I wore my prescription glasses on the flight from Dallas to Rome because I wanted to sleep, and I hate dealing with dry eyes and sticky contact lenses. Especially on planes. When we landed in Rome and caught a ride to our convent accommodations—yes, we lived with the nuns for a few days—mom insisted we take a photo with our taxi driver. He was handsome and so very Italian. I was squinting in my glasses. And that’s when I remembered that I’d forgotten to pack a pair of sunglasses. Ten days in Italy and all our photos would capture me being squinty-eyed. Not ideal.

Our first full day in town, we found a sunglasses stand and my dad bought me a pair so I wouldn’t have to suffer the bright sun for all our time walking and exploring the city. “With all those pairs of sunglasses you have at home, this is ridiculous,” they said. They were right. I knew it. But what a perfect excuse to add to my collection! Plus, all those other pairs were from childhood, I told myself. I needed a new pair that I could be proud to wear as an adult. I was a college grad now, after all!

I loved those Roman sunglasses dearly. They were round with dark tortoise shell frames that only showed the detail when the sun hit just right. The lenses were like golden mirrors. I made sure we got some artsy photos of the coliseum reflecting in my glasses, of course. I felt so confident and stylish in them. I’d never had a pair quite like those, and they felt even more special having come from a trip to Rome.

Those are the sunglasses I proudly wore when I moved to California just two months after our trip. Mom, Dad and I made our cross-country drive and I donned the Rome glasses the whole time. I felt like I was getting in the west coast spirit just by owning such a chic pair of shades.

After the move out west, I kept wearing them all the time. I stored another beloved but old pair in my car for driving, but the Rome glasses I kept in my room for going out with friends. I threw them on and instantly felt ready to take on whatever the day had in store. Amazing how a little accessory can hold so much power.

On a particularly warm day in Malibu, some friends and I were hanging at the beach. The water was actually warm enough to play in the waves. For me, the Pacific is much too cold most of the time, so this seemed like a real treat. A hot day and bearable waves—a simple kind of happiness. I bounded into the water like a child. I felt so free and full of energy. I could tell the ocean did, too.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise when a massive wave flooded over me and ripped my Rome glasses right off my face. I popped up from the wave, so blissfully sun kissed and salty only to quickly realize my shades were gone. I swept my hands around underwater for a few moments, frantically hoping to retrieve them, but I knew it was futile. The sea was wild that day, and it took what it wanted from me. But those glasses! They had survived a vacation in a foreign country and a drive across half of America and quite a number of outings with new friends in the city. I hadn’t even owned them for a whole summer yet. My heart sank knowing I’d never see them again.

Strolling the Venice beach boardwalk one afternoon following the loss of my Rome glasses, I searched for a new pair that could fill the void. I had loved that style and color and fit. How could I possibly find something adequate to take their place? A couple of street vendors welcomed me warmly, desperate for some sucker tourist to sell to. I was bummed and determined enough to take the bait. Like the 22-year-old woman I was, I tried on countless pairs and looked at myself in the tiny, warped mirror for way too long. I ended up buying a pair that looked similar to the Rome ones, feeling that they’d be the best I could find for a cheap price. Tortoise shell frames with reflective blue lenses.

I handed Johanna my blue-lensed sunglasses from Venice beach. She tried them on—and she looked really cute in them. They suited her. In fact, seeing them on her, I realized they looked surprisingly similar to the very pair she herself had misplaced. Seeing her wear them at the beach that sunny day made me happy in a new way—my shades were getting some extra love and providing a tiny bit of comfort to a friend in need. And they were looking really good while doing it.

In all my years of buying and collecting sunglasses, the Rome pair was the only pair I ever broke or lost. For years, I was so concerned with taking care of my sunglasses despite the fact that they were all cheap and easily replaceable. I’ve only owned one truly nice pair of glasses, ever. Those are fine, by the way. All my practice on the cheap pairs prepared me well once I graduated to the big leagues.

But those Rome glasses. The pair that saw me through one of the most tumultuous and transitional periods of my life—those were the ones stolen by the sea. I find it both comforting and ridiculously silly when I remember those golden glasses. How could I care so much about something so ultimately meaningless? Maybe that’s the thing that gets me—just about anything can have meaning. Even a cheap pair of shades.

I suppose we have the Pacific to thank for my willingness to share sunglasses. So yeah, I lost my favorite pair of shades to date. But it made room in my life for sharing the next pair, because truth be told, Johanna’s request might have turned out differently had I still owned my beloved Rome glasses.