My youngest is curled up with her laptop, angling her head back and forth as she clicks the mouse. The camera is on, and as I walk by, I see that she is virtually trying on glasses. Blessed with better eyesight than her mother, the lenses won’t be for correction; rather, they will reduce the blue light from her electronics.

In her cocooned state, giggles and outright laughter erupt as she evaluates her appearance in various frames. Cat Eyes, School Boy, Clear Frames, Dark Rectangles. For two hours, she experimented online, only to slam the laptop shut because she couldn’t decide. I can definitely relate.

I was first prescribed reading glasses in second grade. I was excited. Despite the shape being slightly different, they were the same heavy, dark plastic frames worn by Velma Dinkley of Scooby Doo fame. Having glasses must mean that I was smart like Velma. And the bonus, of course, was that I could see to read.

By middle school, the novelty had worn off and the prescription strengthened. My glasses were a fact of life. Robert Redford, Freddie Mercury and characters on Charlie’s Angels all sported aviators. Thin, metal-framed, designed for pilots but adopted by rebels — if glasses could possibly be cool, these were it.

I begged. I promised to be careful. I vowed to wear them more if only I could get wire-framed aviators. Somehow, I succeeded, and true to my word, I wore them constantly. School picture day was coming, and I had my outfit all picked out. It would be the first time I wouldn’t have to wear a dress, and I would be modeling the coolest glasses ever. My sixth-grade picture would be so awesome that they would use it on the promotional flyers.

The day started great. There was an announcement that our photo time slot would be right after gym. Awesome! That meant we would be missing math. And gym class was dodgeball, one of my favorite games. Things couldn’t be better, until they weren’t.

A ball to the face flattened out my glasses. The right angle between the frame front and the temple was now more like 45 degrees. The top bar was no longer horizontal; it sloped slightly from left to right. I did my best to bend them back, unaware of how cockeyed my frames were.

A bit later in the school picture line, an attendant inspected the students, offering modifications to the bedraggled middle schoolers. Shirts were tucked in. Collars straightened.

She stopped at me. “Do you want to take your glasses off?

Take my awesome aviators off? No way. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded, already envisioning my Hollywood-quality school picture. Wire-frame aviators. My coolness would be permanently documented.

And with a brief flash of the photographer’s light, my middle school look was recorded for posterity. Sweaty frizzy hair from playing hard in gym class, glasses that sloped from ear to chin, and a smile that proved I had no idea that I was a mess. Looking at that picture now, I see a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Dwight Schrute.

This incident left a permanent impression. One look at that goofy picture and my anxiety rises. Hopefully, I will never again achieve that level of dorkiness. Adding to the stress of finding attractive frames, the clause in my insurance states that the frames must be ordered on the same day as the exam. Eyesight blurred by dilation, combined with naturally poor vision, makes this task nearly impossible. Reality means trying on 20 or more frames, blindly trying to identify the best.

In the past, I would rely on my daughters’ opinions, but this visit, I had Bill.

He was waiting in the lobby. As I came out of the exam, he stood up. “Ready to go?”

“I can’t yet, I need to pick out my glasses. You have to do it the same day.”

He sat back down.

“Actually, I need your help. I can’t see that well.”

Bill reluctantly came over. I reached out to a multi-colored blob. My fingers assured me the frame was somewhat round.

“Those look good. Get those.”

“Wait a minute, I need to try more.”

“Seriously, those are good. Get those.”

With a heavy sigh and a minor prayer, I completed the transaction. The only things I was confident about were that Bill can be impatient and that, being rushed, I had made a poor choice, a choice I would need to live with for 12 months.

Two weeks later, the frames arrived, and I wore my new glasses in public for the first time as we went out to dinner.

“Hey, I love your glasses,” the waiter gushed.

“Aren’t they nice? I picked them out,” Bill replied. “Don’t I have good taste?”