I bought them about two years ago. The person I was with at the time said they were "just ok". I loved them. They were the perfect size. Decidedly Jackie-O, but not quite Paris-I-wish-I-was-an-icon Hilton. But they were so hot. They were Armani.

One of the things I liked the most was the way they felt in my hands. When you half-raised the stems to put them on, they would stop mid-motion and wouldn't crash back into the lenses. They just sit there, waiting for me to decide where to move them.

I had this fear that I would be found out. That someone would realize that I didn't deserve them. I imagined that someone would try to corner me and I would be forced to admit, "Yes! They're fake!" or "Yes! They were procured through questionable means!" But they were authentic. And I bought them in a regular store. I was once proud and self-conscious that they were so cheap.

If anyone complimented them or mentioned them, I would find myself immediately offering the following: "Oh, these? Yeah, they're Armani. I got them super cheap at Nordstrom Rack." See what I just did there? At once proved their authenticity and rendered the other party unable to judge my possession of them. Who wouldn't buy Armani super cheap? I'm just like you!

I won't recount the myriad summer afternoons together. Sunny days are such a rare treat, i looked at them as a sort of physical manifestation of good times. There was wakeboarding, biking, swimming and a particularly wonderful one day road trip to Wal-Mart, among other destinations. All in all, things were good.

I have the propensity to be a bit careless with my things, even if I love them. You would never find them out of their case if they weren't on my face. But things happen. The smooth-as-silk movement of the stems wore off of one side. There were small abrasions where the edge of the stem would hit the glass.

I've recounted this story so many times. I remember biking home. I remember coming to my room and putting them on my desk. I remember this all so well. I'm suspicious, as I remember so few trivial moments like this. When it dawned on me the next week that I hadn't seen them in some time, I recounted this last memory of them with an alarming exactness.

I kept the torch for a very long time. In my permanently messy room, I assumed that their loss was nothing that a good thorough room cleaning couldn't rectify. I did not replace them through several room cleanings each time thinking that this was the time I was giong to find them. I even kept their case empty in anticipation.

I wish I could remember the moment I realized they were gone. I wish I could remember my last moments with them without being riddled with doubt. I knew they would be difficult to replace, but not impossible. While I still had them, I almost replaced them in California's South Coast Plaza, but could not reconcile my need for new ones and the $300 price differential.

I knew they were great when I had them. I didn't need their disappearance to discover this. I knew it wouldn't last. I know my nature. No matter how good I tried to be, I knew there was going to be a time when I would drop them out of a moving car or kneel on them in the grass. This is who I am. It sucks and I wish I could be different sometimes.

A new pair was sitting in a brown paper bag in my mailbox. They were given by a friend who was fulfilling a long forgotten promise to give me some extras he'd had. They are inexpensive, they feel inexpensive in my hands and I know with even greater surety that they won't last. They inherited the fancy, emblazoned case. They'll get the best possible treatment, though I'm sure they'll be left in a tub at airport security soon.