by Lee B. Weaver
I
am a nerd. I won’t
deny it. I can’t deny it. Thirty-two years ago, I was born into a family
of nerds and raised in a loving, nerd environment. And, upon reaching
adulthood, I adopted a nerd lifestyle. I know what it is to be… a nerd.
I define a “nerd” as a person whose natural instincts in matters of style and
mannerism are the opposite of what is considered cool or fashionable. Notice I
said “natural instincts,” meaning a person who is not a nerd cannot
be a nerd on purpose. On the other hand, a person who is a nerd
can conceal his nerdiness through superficial affectations such as
clothing or cars, but only temporarily. Ultimately, his inner nerditude will
prevail, his true nature exposed.
Empirically speaking, while I was probably more nerdy as a kid, I am
more aware of my nerdiness now, as an adult. Regardless, there is no denying
that the roots of my nerdness reach all the way back to my infancy, because
(drum roll, please), at 16 months of age, I got my first pair of
glasses. Thick ones. Really thick. Papillon thick.
I got the glasses after my parents noticed that I neither played with my toys
nor recognized my family. I just sat and stared at nothing for hours. They
thought I was retarded. Fortunately, the only thing wrong with me was I
couldn’t see beyond my eyeglasses.
Sadly, the gift of sight came at the expense of whatever good looks I had at
the time. Words fail me when I attempt to describe my appearance. Just imagine,
um, well… oh, never mind. You couldn’t possibly imagine. I was not cute. Not
at all. Ask anyone. The pictures speak for themselves. Eyes as big as silver
dollars. Lenses so thick I could actually start fires with them. And get this:
my own wife says I looked like a boll weevil. That has to be
bad.
Over the years, my glasses have been a source of considerable wonder and curiosity for others. People who
hardly know me, passersby even, will suddenly lunge at me and proclaim,
“Goddamn, you’ve got some thick glasses!” Then, invariably, they add some dopey
observation like, “You must be blind.” Or maybe, “You must be
really blind.”
And, by far, the two most-asked questions are:
1) Can’t you get contact lenses?
The tone of this question is what really bothers me. It’s the same tone used
when asking, “Can’t you have that removed?” regarding some growth or another
that has sprung up on someone. (To answer the question, yes, I can get
contacts. And if I were vain and shallow, I’m sure I would run right out and
get some.)
2) Does everything look really big to you?
Yeah. Exactly. The people around me are giants. I’m scared to leave the house.
Jesus.
Another thing people do is they want to wear my glasses. Most
of the time they don’t even ask. They just put their grubby hands up in my face
and snatch them off my head, like I’m the sunglasses rack at Foley’s. Then what
inevitably happens is they put them on, make a stupid face, and go, “How can
you see through these?” as if I am forcing my own perfect eyes to look
through thick, corrupting lenses just to see if I can do it. As if I wear them
for cosmetic purposes only.
Next, hilarity ensues as the people around us begin to laugh and point. I, of
course, can’t see a thing. I can only assume that they are laughing at
how utterly ridiculous and silly this person looks wearing these abominable
glasses. Then they catch on and say, “Oh… but they look good on you.”
Uh-huh.
Okay. Enough with the glasses. What other aspects of my youth can we talk
about? How about my tragic burr haircut? And what about my mother’s policy of
always buttoning the top button on my shirts? And don’t forget that I was the
only eight-year-old on the planet who could spell
“antidisestablishmentarianism” — or would even want to. Or maybe we could just
talk about my big bitchin’ ears. Yeah, let’s.
Actually, my ears weren’t particularly big. It’s just that what ears I had
stuck out from my head at right angles. Well, no, that’s not true either. My
left ear was slightly more perpendicular than my right, creating a
Picasso-esque perspective problem for anybody trying to figure out just which
direction I was facing exactly.
What’s more, I wasn’t born like this. It was the goddamn glasses. They
were so big and heavy, and I was so young and developing, that the weight of
the glasses actually pushed my ears out. This effect was aggravated by
the fact that I refused to take the glasses off. I even slept with them on.
Having gone the first year and a half of my life as The Crosseyed Retardo Baby,
I can only imagine how unwilling I was to have the Magic Coke Bottles removed
from my bald head.
And the only way I can account for the offset ears was that I tended to
sleep on the right side of my head more than the left, possibly mashing the
right ear flatter to my head.
Hey, it’s a theory.
So. Are we all in agreement that I had a considerable image problem? Okay. My dad was no damn
help, either. In fact, he used to say to me, “Son, you look like a car driving
down the street with its doors open.” Thanks, Dad. Very nice.
But, I guess I can understand my dad’s lack of sensitivity, because he is the
worst kind of nerd: He’s a nerd who doesn’t know he’s a nerd. He thinks
he’s normal. But he’s not, I assure you. He is, in fact, a patent attorney
whose idea of a big time is drinking lite beer and going square dancing. He was
in ROTC. He knows how to use a slide rule. He watches, and enjoys,
Hee Haw. He was in band for Christ’s sake!
However, my mother — my penny-pinching mother, who bought day-old bread,
clipped coupons, and refused to buy us cool clothes — did consent
unblinkingly when I asked for $2,000 to have my ears surgically altered.
It’s true. I had my ears done. I now have the most streamlined ears on my
block. In fact, I would put my ears up against anyone’s in terms of symmetry,
aerodynamics, and not looking like a car going down the street with its doors
open.
After my “procedure,” I entered a brief phase during which I actually
appeared to be sort of cool in a not-as-nerdy-as-I-used-to-be kind of way. I
cut my hair like everybody else, switched to contact lenses, purchased
fashionable clothes, and had lots and lots of meaningless sex with people I
hardly knew. Ah, yes. I had indeed arrived.
Then, about five years later, it ended. I switched back to glasses, got a job
in a bank, went to law school, married a girl from the old neighborhood, and
stopped having sex entirely.
Still, I don’t think my return to Dorkdom was official until the day I was
sitting in my house, minding my own business, and a voice from outside my open
window announced: “Nerd.” I looked up to see a teenage boy I did not know,
staring at me through the window, expressionless and completely unconcerned, as
he repeated in the same monotone, “Nerd.” With that he walked away, laughing
gently to himself.
So many things about this episode bother me. Given the infinite number of
juvenile insults he could have chosen, how did he arrive at “nerd”? How could
he possibly have known? Was it that obvious? And how wimpy did I look to him
that he could just stroll off after berating me? I’m surprised he didn’t
just come on inside and fix himself a sandwich! The little bastard. Oh well. Maybe that’s
simply a nerd’s cross to bear. And I can accept that. But that kid better pray
I never catch him in a well lighted alley, because I may just have to burn a
few holes in his clothes or something. Do you hear that, Johnny Clear
Vision? I’m looking for you, buddy. At least, I think that’s you.
Goddammit, I hate these things. n Comic and humor essayist Lee B. Weaver detailed the joys of Baywatch for the
Chronicle in April, and hopes to continue writing once he finds his glasses.
This article appears in November 15 • 1996 and November 15 • 1996 (Cover).