Show us your sunglasses.
I have many endearing qualities; a new one happens to be an inability – blatant, yet insidious - to hold on to my sunglasses. It's possible that I lost 10 pairs last year. Which is why it really behooves me to buy only cheap sunglasses, to sort of fall in with the self-fulfiling prophecy that I'll lose track of the wretched things within months.
My current pair is not special. And since I sat on them a few weeks ago, their outlook seems even bleaker.
But there was a time, when my sunglasses required many things of its owner: bravery, gall, nerve:
I can't explain the white spots. Inconsistency in the film, dandruff flying upward (I went through a couple of years when I considered shampoo bourgeois), or sharpnel from a distant squadron under orders to obliterate my shades. The 'curtains' might be signaling the Russians (that'll date the picture for you).
This is the young Aubrey, reclining on a sandy beach at Lake Tahoe, getting in touch with her diva side.
I believe that I am nearly sneering at the camera. Bless my disgruntled heart.