I bought sunglasses on sale with the confidence of a woman who labels her bins. They had a strap. Growth mindset, darling. I give them until Thursday, Friday if I do not sit on them climbing into the RV cab.
I have a graveyard in the console: one arm missing, one lens scratched by sand at Great Sand Dunes, one pair that flew off at a Utah overlook and became a gift to the canyon. Europe pickpockets never got those—gravity did.
Until these disappear I will squint heroically at sunset from the patio or the pull-through site while guests or neighbors arrive. The fantasy is free. The truck stop pair was nine dollars.
If you find tortoise frames on a trail, tell Biscuit. He will look interested and offer no reward.