Dear Monocle Man,
This morning, Jessica sent me a link to the Warby Parker website, alerting me to the fact that for a mere $50 it is possible to buy a prescription monocle. This realization made me unreasonably upset. Maybe it’s because I live in Portland and the implications of thousands of steampunk hipsters trying to balance ironic monocles atop their cheekbones while riding fixed gear bicycles are not only disturbing but dangerous. Or maybe it’s because I think monocles are dumb …
I mean, look at you. You’re a cute guy. You’ve got great facial hair. I love what you’re doing with the skinny tie/cardigan combo. I’m guessing you’ve read some really interesting books and know your way around an “Arrested Development” reference. I can see myself going on a very enjoyable date with you, up until the moment the waiter hands us our menus and you pull out your monocle and tilt your head inquisitively to examine the list of appetizers. That would be the moment I set my napkin on the table and said, “I’m very sorry, but I need to get home right away to feed my parakeet.” I don’t even have a parakeet.
Sad, huh? That monocle just robbed us both of a happy life together.
Apparently not all women feel this way. For example, my coworker Ami says, and I quote, “I could get hot for a man in a monocle.” So it looks like you’ve still got a shot at a fruitful dating life, but is this really what you want, Monocle Man? To be loved for your anachronistic accessory instead of your brilliant mind and beautiful soul?
Honestly, I think you’re better than this. If you want to correct your vision, buy a cute pair of glasses. If you want to wear a monocle, get a starring role in a community theater production of “In The Ballroom With A Wrench: The Life And Times Of Colonel Mustard.” I’ll be first in line to buy a ticket. I’ll even take you out to dinner afterward. Do you like Chili’s?
So there it is, Monocle Man. I wish you luck in all your future endeavors. Unless they involve wearing a monocle and playing with your iPad at Starbucks. If you’re doing that, you’re on your own.
Original by Winona Dimeo-Ediger