I emerged from an optometrist's office with glasses. I went in with some degree of sophistication and was reborn a dork.

My third-grade teacher Mrs. Miller first noticed my nearsightedness, telling my parents that I seemed to have trouble seeing the blackboard. This only after a series of cuffs and teeth-rattling shakes failed to correct the problem.

The old man wanted to leave me that way, arguing that myopia would make me increasingly oblivious to ice-cream stands on the highway. Mom insisted on glasses.

Glasses did not improve my scholastic performance. Being able to see what was going on more clearly didn't make it any more interesting. The important thing was that Mrs. Miller appeared to be more of a hag than I realized.

The biggest change occurred on the playground. Whereas I had previously been able to keep pace with my classmates, the large Mason jar lenses were bulky and aerodynamically unsound. I could no longer run as fast or jump as far.

Speed and nimbleness are important survival mechanisms for a kid with poor impulse control and small muscles. Say what you want about schoolyard bullies - and I always did - they can spot a cripple in the herd.

There were personal training devices back then. If you were monosyllabic and having a bad day, you worked out your frustration on a nerd, easily identifiable by the skillet-size lenses attached to his face.

We made particularly great dodgeball victims. It's disconcerting to dodge a throw only to discover that your head is lugging so much weight that your body simply can't drag it out of the way in time.

Because of glasses, I never learned to enjoy swimming. Ditto anything to do with the water. Gliding across a lake on a pair of skis isn't as much fun when you can't see stuff like logs, rocks or even the back end of the boat.

I tried to lead a normal life by using retaining straps, rubber bands, duct tape and even paper clips to hold my specs in place. Nothing really worked. Eventually I would lose my glasses and be left wondering if that was a puppy or a logging truck bearing down on me.

Scuba diving and parachuting were tough, but dating was the worst. Moving in for a kiss always risked knocking the intended target goofy with the frames of my glasses.

Contacts? Tried the gas-permeable lenses when I was a cop and to hell with that. If you're curious how it felt, stick a bottle cap under your eyelid and give yourself a good smack.

Over the years I gradually resigned myself to the deformity of my eyes. As I got older and slowed down more, it became less important to be free of them.

Not anymore.

In two hours, I'm going to let someone skin my corneas and laser me some new eyeballs. It may be too late to recover my cool, but maybe I'll be able to see well enough to look for it.

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Tribune columnist Robert Kirby welcomes mail at 90 S. 400 West, Suite 700, Salt Lake City, UT 84101, or e-mail rkirby@sltrib.com