For more than 30 years, my eyeglasses served as an extra appendage. Almost every single day of my life, the very first thing I did upon waking up was to reach for them—otherwise I’d step on the dog, walk straight into the wall, and face the day with a bloody nose. If I didn’t wear glasses, I’d slam into doors, drive into concrete barriers, and fall down escalators.

Until age eight, I thought the world was one big blur. Yes. My parents recall seeing me watching Sesame Street with my nose touching the screen of our black-and-white Nivico (funny enough, they thought watching TV in extreme closeup was the reason why my eyes were shot).  I thought the human figure was normally fuzzy, that houses actually looked like they were submerged in murky water, that letters on blackboards appeared as if they were melted splotches of white paint.

It was not until second grade when I realized that the world looked different. That’s when I started wearing glasses. My grade? 600+. I remember wobbling out of a La Loma optometrist feeling like my head would explode anytime. When we got home, I puked.

Normally, the people who wear that kind of grade are ailing octogenarians waiting for a merciful death. But that’s been the story of my life. I suffered from extreme myopia or nearsightedness.

I could never function without eyeglasses. If we were at a mall and you swiped them and hid it from me, I would weep like a little girl and spend my night on the floor.

I could never slamdance and dive into moshpits. I did it once in Dapitan, at a punk gig, and when my spectacles fell off, my first instinct was to box everyone out and yell, “Hoy, sandali, p---- ina! Salamin ko!” It was, understandably, not the height of coolness.

I’ve heard every blind- and bad-eye joke there is.

I grew up playing basketball with glasses. My neighbors called me James Worthy when I was scoring. On off days it was Kurt Rambis. Obviously, we were all Lakers fans. Most of them time they’d  just call me “Labo.” Miraculously, those glasses seldom slipped off even in the heat of physical activity.  And when they did, they never broke—they were thick—industrial-strength Coke bottle-bottom-thick--plastic lenses. I looked like Professor Frink in The Simpsons.

And it only got worse with age. My present grade: 1,000 for the right eye; 1,200 for the left. In some countries, they wouldn’t issue me a driver’s license. In others, they’d lock me up and just give me a pension. But this is the Philippines—Magical Realist tropical country where even blind people can drive.

Sometime in 1997, I tried wearing contact lenses. But with my , uhm, “unconventional” lifestyle back then, they were too much of a chore—try taking them off at four in the morning after a night of, uh, tequila. I got sick and tired searching for them on the bathroom floor. I gave up after a month.

Listen: my dreams are multitude. Engaging in mixed martial arts and extreme sports are not in the list. But two of them are to be able to wear shades and to see my toes in the shower.

They came true last week after going through Lasik surgery at the American Eye Center.  It was a quick, painless surgery. Just five freaking minutes per eye. Going to the dentist  actually takes more time. Funny how your life can change in less time that takes you to listen to “Stairway to Heaven.”

You might say, “What’s the big deal? They’re just glasses.” Understand: I do not wear them for purposes of vanity.

I now look at the glasses the way I look at a loyal pet dog who’s about to die of old age. Wait, let me correct myself. That thing has been an anatomical part. What to do with them now? Maybe use them as microscope or magnifying glass to put under sunlight and zap ants. Or maybe I should just put them in a glass cage with a medal of loyalty wrapped around it. They have served me well.

I will miss them. I will miss wiping them when they fog up after I walk out of a cold mall into a humid afternoon. I will miss pushing them back when I sweat like a pig during gigs. I will miss instinctively reaching for them upon waking up. Hell, I miss them now. Maybe I should just wear glasses. But this time, for vanity.  That strange new guy in the mirror? He still freaks me out.

*(Best version by Victor Wood from his 1977 album recorded live at the CCP: “…. Is gonna be a braaaayt san-syaynee deeey”)

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