My anxiety attack was foreshadowed by a worrisome tic under my left eye. This was followed shortly by the appearance of another tic twitching on the right side of my nose next to the nostril. I felt like a hungry rabbit. Eh, what`s up, Doc?
Soon, a third tic completed a triangle on my face, blossoming next to the left corner of my mouth-a quivering dimple. Later, I told my best friend: ”It feels like The Bermuda Triangle has landed on my face.”
”PMS,” she scoffed.
”Not everything that happens to you can be traced to PMS,” I argued feebly.
I was craving chocolate, gaining weight and stockpiling dark chocolate candy bars. On my way to see my eye doctor, I bought four more goodie-bars and tucked them far inside my purse for insurance.
”I see a tic under your left eye,” the doctor announced. ”Nothing to worry about. It`s just a sign of emotional distress. There`s no treatment for it but rest. It`ll probably go away when you feel less pressured,” he predicted.
When he finished the exam, I was directed to his eyeglass frame shop to face the irksome task of selecting fashionable frames for my new prescription. Naturally, I wanted something pretty to complement my brown eyes, my pale skin and with a flattering tint to hide at least one tic.
For my inspection, Madame Salesperson offered me a pair of bronze metal frames-good-looking but ridiculously expensive at $216. I was a vision in them, she assured me.
”No thanks,” I said.
Madame-still smiling-handed me another pair. These frames cost just $180. They were a shiny red and gold. I was a vision in them, she assured me.
I agreed with her, but could I afford to? ”Maybe,” I thought, placing the frames between us on neutral, unsold ground.
Then Madame brought out a third pair: $93 and not exactly ugly.
In the school of successful selling techniques, this third offering is known as that which should propel the buyer into choosing the middle-priced product.
I slipped them on hopefully. Madame shook her head with a shudder and said, ”Ooooooh, those just wash you out. They are too pale for your skin and the wrong shape for your face.” Leaning forward, she confided, ”They make you look cheap.”
Once more I felt the Bermuda Triangle twitch across my face.
”I`ll take these,” I said, snookered into the $180 frames. Madame murmured words of praise-the technique known as ”assuring the buyer.”
I began to inwardly bemoan the cost of my decision when the idea hit me:
maybe this is how much a decent, good-looking pair of glasses really should cost in the world today.
Perhaps this is the reason my tics are ticking. I grow weary of trying to maintain a fashionable status quo-of keeping my vision perfect while being a vision myself. Of suspecting that I am being over-charged. Of always comparing myself to the image of what I`m supposed to look like were my likeness on the cover of Cosmo-and fretting about it.
Later that night I had a nightmare. I dreamed I was surrounded by fields of dark chocolate candy bars for which I no longer had an appetite. I was relieved to wake up and retreat to the couch and sip hot unsugared tea. Alone and shivering I worried about whether staying alive might eventually become more expensive than I can afford. What would happen if one day I finally had to settle for looking-oh, God, no-cheap!
No more room in the budget for expensive make-up. No more buying seasonal styles and no more insecurity when Oprah Winfrey comments on one of her televised fashion shows, ”You`ve got to really know who you are to wear that.”
Do I really, Oprah?
Do my Mr. Magoo glasses say that I think I`m nerdish or just compensating for blindness?
In creating a look am I really hiding the truth that I am one dress size larger than I want to be, wearing a pair of glasses I can see through no matter how they may look to someone else? Or am I merely trying to grow old gracefully? Now that`s a comforting thought.
I found two reasons to feel tranquil-one more chocolate bar in my handbag to go with one more cup of unsweetened tea. My tics began to fade-not into The Bermuda Triangle-but into the time warp of passing fashions, PMS, and into that more comfortable zone of experience called self-acceptance.
