Confessions XLII

Last night, taking off my shirt before getting in the shower, I broke my glasses in thirds -- lens-and-arm, lens-and-arm, and nosepiece-and-two-little-pieces-of-glass.

I collapsed into a heap on my kitchen floor and cried for a minute about it, even though I have two other pairs of glasses.

When I was in fifth grade, I was so mad I pounded my bed with my fists, and hit my glasses, which I'd set down in front of me, snapping their plastic frame in half; I cried harder then because I felt so intensely guilty. Now, that incident seems to prove what accidents always seem to prove to me, which is that we have befuddlingly, alarmingly little control over our lives -- even our own actions. This scares me, but is also comforting at times, because it means everything isn't always my fault.