About a week ago I lost my sunglasses. Not just any sunglasses, but my prescription sunglasses. The prescription sunglasses I’ve had since 1988.

It’s a big deal, even though I had been preparing for this day for a while now.

They were Gucci. Tortoiseshell. Probably a $500 pair even back in the 80s, but I got them for free because I worked for the ophthalmologist who referred all his patients to the optical shop that gave them to me. If I had actually paid for them, I’m sure I would have lost them within the first year or two. That’s just how that works.

I loved those sunglasses, mostly because they didn’t have those little nose pad things, which meant I could wear them as a headband — a very expensive headband, my optometrists have reminded me over the years — without them getting tangled up in my hair. In hindsight, that’s probably the only reason I managed to hang onto them for 38 years. They weren’t just sunglasses, they were functional.

Until you do the math. They were free, so not expensive to me, but even if I had paid full price for them, it works out to something like $13 a year, or 28 cents a day.

I’m not really sure the math is right, but it feels right.

I’ve lost these glasses before. Once, riding through the back hills of Wisconsin on my ex-husband’s Harley, they flew off my head while we were coasting down a hill. We turned around and went back for them, mostly because it’s illegal to ride without eyewear, but also because we weren’t completely reckless.

Over the years my prescription changed, so I replaced the lenses a few times, but eventually that stopped being an option because the frames were too brittle. So I got a new pair with an updated prescription and immediately lost them on a jetski while chasing seagulls with my nieces. We crossed our own wake, the jetski went one way, we went another, and my glasses hovered on the surface for a split second before disappearing into the cold, dark water. I did try to dive for them, but it turns out it’s hard to do any kind of deep seas – or lake as the case may be – diving in a life jacket.

I’m not sure that even qualifies as losing them since I know exactly where they are, but it still bothers me.

After that, I went back to the Gucci pair, and with each passing year I found myself more impressed that I had managed to keep track of them this long. I have size 4 Levi’s from the 90s that I’ve held onto just as long, but those are tucked away safely in a box in the attic. They’re not sitting on top of my head, exposed to wind, weather, and whatever else the day throws at me.

I lost the sunglasses about a week ago, although I couldn’t tell you exactly when it happened because I’ve been slowly transitioning away from them anyway. Last year I bought a newer pair, something a little more Ray-Ban-ish since the oval shape from the 80s isn’t quite as flattering on my softer, definitely not size 4 face anymore.

My eyesight seems to change depending on the day, or maybe depending on how much time I spend staring at my phone or my computer, so I’ve been rotating between readers, night driving glasses, and two pairs of sunglasses. It’s not exactly a system, more like a daily negotiation with my eyes.

Because of that, the sunglasses could have been anywhere. My car, one of my bags, the sideboard where I usually put them, or even a restaurant if I’d taken them off to switch to my readers and left them behind. None of that felt quite right though, because I’ve been so careful with them all these years.

What I did remember, vaguely, was taking them off because they kept sliding off the top of my head. Which means I must have been bending down to do something. And I also remember thinking, very clearly at the time, “I’m not going to remember where I put these.”

Which, of course, I didn’t.

Until this weekend.

I was out in the yard spreading mulch when I saw them sitting on top of the compost bin, like they had just been waiting for me to come back and get them. My 38-year-old Gucci prescription sunglasses, right where I left them.

Exactly where I knew they would be. Eventually. Once I remembered to look in the place I specifically told myself I’d forget.

Sitting there on the compost bin, it did feel a little like a sign. Not a big, meaningful one. Just enough to suggest I should probably deal with the box on my stairs before I get another threatening text.