Walking down the street

What I think I look like: I strut down the city streets with the gait of a supermodel. My sunglasses are on, and I pout my lips slightly even though I don’t have much lip to pout with. I cross the street and don’t even look both ways. People point and stare, asking “who is she?”

What I actually look like: I walk slowly and calculatedly because these shades are darker than I remember from last summer. My sunglasses aren’t prescription, and I struggle to successfully put contacts in, so I don’t see the crosswalk hand sign instructing pedestrians to “Do Not Walk.” I step into the crosswalk and almost get hit by a car. People point and stare, asking, “who does she think she is?”

Driving a car

What I think I look like: I have my right hand on the steering wheel, and the left draped outside the driver’s seat window of my convertible. My sunglasses are on, the wind is whipping my hair, and I have a cigarette in my hand, smoking like one of those 1950s Hollywood actresses before they knew smoking was bad. I drive off, going five miles per hour over the speed limit.

What I actually look like: I close the driver’s window and sunroof of my Chevy Impala because there’s some teenagers vaping on the sidewalk nearby, and my asthma’s starting to act up. I keep my sunglasses on to avoid the stares of the car that speeds past me in the left lane, giving me the middle finger as they go. A cop pulls me over for going 20 on a 35 mph road.

Out shopping

What I think I look like: I stroll into an old boutique I frequented as a girl with my sunglasses on. As I examine a hand-crafted vase with no price tag, I spot an old high school classmate. Because I’m wearing my sunglasses, I can see them looking at me, but they can’t tell through my shades that I’m looking at them. I don’t engage.

What I actually look like: Going down the coffee mug aisle at T.J. Maxx with my mom, I spot the most popular girl from my graduating class with her yoked husband and two kids. I quickly put my sunglasses on so that she doesn’t recognize me. I think that she can’t see me creeping but apparently the T.J. Maxx lights are bright enough that she can indeed see my eyes through my sunglasses. She looks concerned that a so-called stranger is staring down her and her family, and ushers her children to a different aisle and to safety.

Out at a restaurant

What I think I look like: Arriving fashionably late, I meet my fellow diners at our table and keep my sunglasses on inside the restaurant. The waitstaff treat me like a regular because I could pass for a famous movie star wearing my sunglasses for all they know, and they laugh at my charismatic banter about my time living in Italy. When my meal comes out, I put my sunglasses up to use as a headband to get my hair out of my face—it is done effortlessly and tangle-less.

What I actually look like: I enter the restaurant with my sunglasses on and bump into the host stand because everything’s too dark. I put my sunglasses on top of my head, forgetting that it has that problematic metal part that holds the glasses together. I drink too many glasses of wine, and talk too loudly about my three-week study abroad in Rome that I went on twelve years ago. The sunglasses that I put on top of my head an hour earlier gets stuck on my head, as my hair has wrapped itself around the metal part of the sunglasses. Two of my fellow diners plus the host have to help me untangle it. I lose a decent fistful of hair in the process.

At the beach

What I think I look like: I frolic across the sand with just my bikini and sunglasses on, giggling. I don’t need to wear a T-shirt over my swimsuit to protect my shoulders, or any sunblock. I am mysterious, undercover, and feel just like the rest of the townsfolk wanting to be one with mother nature.

What I actually look like: I run across the sand screaming because it’s so hot it’s burning my feet. In the ocean, a big wave comes and knocks my sunglasses square off my face. I start panicking in the water trying to find them and the lifeguard mistakes my frustration for me drowning. After ten minutes the annoyed teenage lifeguard gives up trying to help me find my sunglasses, and I slump out of the water. I’m sunburnt, and I no longer have any sunglasses to mask my raccoon eyes.