A Cellarful of Nose - Future Shoes

whenever I say something public.
I try on the glasses, and they are obviously not mine. Because
I did not have my glasses, I could not see they were cubic
zirconium-encrusted, tortoise-shell rims with mother-of pearl
"fins" – not mine at all, and quite possibly Elton John's.
I would look hilarious trying on the obviously wrong glasses,
and everyone would get another big belly laugh at the reliably
absent-minded writer's expense.
Possibility two: I get up there, I try 'em on, they are my
glasses, and everyone remembers what a space cadet I am, and
that, too, is cause for gales of laughter – much, I might remind
you, like the hooting and derision Jesus experienced this same
week a long time ago.
Either way, I am exposed as a featherbrained middle-aged
man who can't keep track of something on the nose of his face.
So ... I sat in silence.
My strategy was to wait until after the service, and then, with
the people praying upfront providing cover, sneak up, sneak up
and pocket the glasses (which, admittedly, had a 99.9999999%
probability of being mine).
Which I did, except that Elder Wilder caught me with hand at
the dais. "Oh, those were your glasses?" he asked. "Yes," I
winced.
“Why didn't you just step up and claim them during the
service?”
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