It was a relationship that survived the milestones of young adult life. We got together in the fall of 1989, my first semester at the University of Florida. We shared countless drives across the state, traveling home from UF and back again. We were together through graduation from UF, a move to a new city and the first real job, and a marriage. We rode in the car together when my first child came home from the hospital. We took vacations together; visiting family in New England and Louisiana, hiking through the woods of Florida, Georgia and New Hampshire, and sampling the better life at some of Florida’s finest resorts. We’ve stayed together through the mundane: countless commutes back and forth to work, weekend errands, and weekday evening trips to Walgreen’s for that overpriced refill for a prescription medication.

Yesterday afternoon our relationship came to an end.

I was getting settled in my car, in the parking lot at work. The sun was shining and I reached for my trusty, yet grossly out of fashion Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. I pulled the earpieces out to hook them behind my ears, but I stopped short. I heard a metallic snap and watched as one of the glass lenses fell to my lap. The wire frame had snapped. They would never again support the weight of a glass lens perched on my nose. I went to Costco and picked out a discounted pair of designer sunglasses to replace old faithful. When I got home, my wife exclaimed, “Hey, those look a lot better than your old Ray-Bans. You look sophisticated.”

Is there no one that feels my pain?