I have a pair of glasses.

Proper glasses.

You know the sort. You go to the opticians, sit in the chair while someone shines various bits of machinery into your eyes, reads out letters that get progressively smaller, and eventually tells you that your eyesight is apparently not quite as good as you thought it was.

Except…

Mine are a little bit different.

One lens is Plano.

In other words, completely plain. No prescription. Nothing.

The other one had a very, very small prescription in it.

And I mean tiny.

So tiny, in fact, that I’ve now outgrown the prescription altogether.

Technically, I don’t need the glasses anymore.

But I still wear them.

Why?

Because they are my Clarke Kent glasses.

Yes.

Really.

Those of you who know me will already know that I’m a massive comic book nerd, so perhaps this shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

But there’s actually a bit more to it than that.

You see, glasses can create a little physical barrier between me and the world.

Not a huge one.

Nobody looking at me would think, “Blimey, that bloke has constructed a defensive perimeter around himself.”

But they do something.

Much like sunglasses do.

For years, I’ve found sunglasses useful in social situations because they make eye contact easier. They create that tiny bit of separation between me and the person I’m talking to.

I can still see them.

I can still listen.

I can still have the conversation.

But somehow, having something between their eyes and mine makes me feel a little less exposed.

A little less vulnerable.

And that can make a surprisingly big difference.

The problem with sunglasses, of course, is that they’re not exactly practical all the time.

At night?

Not really.

In a dark room?

Probably not.

When it’s raining and the sky looks like it’s personally offended by the existence of daylight?

Definitely not.

And wearing sunglasses indoors can occasionally result in people wondering whether I’m about to perform at a nightclub rather than attend a perfectly ordinary meeting.

So these glasses fill the gap.

They look like normal glasses.

Because, well, they are.

Nobody needs to know that one lens is doing absolutely nothing and the other one is basically on permanent holiday.

They give me that little barrier without making the world around me darker.

And when I’m nervous, particularly if I’m standing on a stage or speaking in front of people, they help.

Stage fright is an odd thing.

You can know exactly what you want to say.

You can have prepared.

You can know that the people in front of you aren’t actually waiting for you to fail.

And yet your brain can still decide:

“Excellent. This is the moment we panic.”

Having my glasses on gives me something.

A tiny bit of confidence.

A little shield.

Perhaps even a psychological costume.

Which brings me back to Clarke Kent.

Because Superman has always fascinated me.

Not simply because he can fly, lift cars and apparently survive being thrown through buildings.

It’s the idea of the alter ego.

Clark Kent puts on a pair of glasses and suddenly he’s just an ordinary bloke.

Nobody looks twice.

Nobody expects him to save the world.

And while I’m certainly not claiming that my glasses give me superpowers

They help me feel like I’m wearing my social armour.

They give me a little bit of distance.

A little bit of protection.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

I think we all have things like that.

Little routines.

Objects.

Clothes.

Jewellery.

Music.

Something we carry with us that makes the difficult things feel slightly easier.

They might look completely insignificant to somebody else.

But they aren’t insignificant to us.

For me, apparently, it’s a pair of slightly ridiculous glasses with one lens that doesn’t need a prescription and another that doesn’t need one anymore.

To everyone else, they’re just glasses.

To me?

They’re my Clarke Kent glasses.

And sometimes, even when you don’t need a prescription, you still need the glasses.

Stay safe,

BC