But, during that one day in the year in which I'm obligated to seek out a new pair of specs, I hate my head. Just two years prior, after spending hours weeding through hundreds of beautiful frames at a certain not-to-be-named trendy eyeglasses retailer I've extolled on the site dozens of times before, the sales associate and I came to the conclusion that the only pair that fit my particular needs was one that only Sarah Palin could love. Tired, annoyed, but frantic, I just picked a pair that I thought looked nice, and hoped that by the time they came fitted with my prescription, my face would have undergone a miraculous transformation. Upon arrival, the already high-index lenses were as thick as a Peanut Butter Patty cookie, so unevenly heavy they would have tipped off my nose if I put them on, but I couldn't even get them on my face, because they were a good inch too narrow, and I accidentally snapped off the arms trying to wiggle into them. Commence: tears.