Through the Looking Glass

It’s been almost a week now and I didn’t want to draw attention to it lest it become an issue.

Matilda wears glasses now, as I mentioned. She’s been wearing for a week and, I have to be honest, I haven’t even noticed. She looks so natural. Very intelligent and sophisticated for an eight year old.

Walking out of the store she read every sign she could see. She was so pleased not to be living in a murky world of fuzzy images and blurred edges that she was a machine.

“I can see the building over there! It’s address is 13023! I can see that bird! I can see the gas prices! I can see each pore on our face! You need to have a better plan for that. I’m recommending you for Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”

She’s spent the better part of the last week in front of the mirror, admiring her face in its newfound resolution.

Last night, as we were reading Harry Potter, she looked over at me and said, “You know, I look good in glasses. I mean, I look really good in glasses.”

And she does. Somehow she looks cuter, more refined. They fit her face perfectly and her normally startling blue eyes are even more sparkling and radiant.

And this is where I’m in trouble. She’s heading toward puberty. She’s always going to be svelte and blonde and now with glasses, she’s going to be damn cute.

Boys are going to dig her. And she’s going to dig boys digging her.

And I’m completely screwed.

At least now with the glasses, the odds of her picking Zeke the Carny over Sheldon the Physicist are slightly slimmer. But I suppose that depends on how much she wants to piss me off.

I know this is a long way off. But I worry. I’m sure she won’t be shallow; she’s a very considerate kid. But I worry. I worry that I’ll have to live in a hotel until she gets married. I won’t be able to handle it.

She’s cute. And smart. And witty. And pretty. And everything else Maria was in Westside Story. And she lives with me. Soon the phone will start ringing and instead of Abby asking for Matilda, it will be Josh. And Josh will have a Z-28. And Josh will be a complete ass that I’ll despise.

I need to teach her criteria. “Look at your mom. She’s beautiful too, right? And she picked a chubby geek for a husband. You don’t want that rich kid with the cool car. Look at the boys in the chemistry lab with silver fingers from handling silver iodide. Those are the boys you want to date.”

But Josh is cute.

“True, he is cute. But Josh is a jock. Being a geek I am programmed to dislike jocks because they beat me up and stuffed me in trash cans.”

That never happened dad. You always said that in high school you had lots of friends who were all in bands.

“Uh, yeah. You can’t date those boys either.”

Why?

“Trust me. Don’t date boys who listen to Zeppelin 2 repeatedly.”

Why?

“Because they . . . look, you can date guys who understand the blues and its influence on late sixties rock later in life. After I’m dead. Stick with the nerds.”

But they’re pale and they don’t like to go to parties.

“I’m failing to see the problem honey.”

They’re boring.

“And . . .”

They’re boring. And they drive Corollas.

“A sensible, economic safe car.”

Sigh. Never mind dad. I have to get ready for my date.

“Okay. I’ll go get your hair shirt and frock.”

Discuss