I see

When the annals of history are compiled, and the historians have completed their final review, today - the twenty-first of January in the year of our Lord two thousand, zero hundred, and eight, will surely be counted among the most disheartening since the Fall of Man. Today, it was confirmed unto me a certain piece of information; news of which I had been growing increasingly suspicious during the last few months, yet all the more wishing it could be delayed indefinitely. Today, I delay no longer. Today, I was told by a certified Armenian-born doctor of opthamology that I must wear glasses yet again.

My middle name is henceforth changed to "Le Miserable".

I first donned prescription spectacles at the tender age of eight, and wore them dutifully almost every day until, at the ambitious age of twenty-three, I subjected myself to that trauma commonly referred to as LASIK. Said subjection was successful, granting me 20/15 vision and a wastebasket full of prescription spectacles. That was a wonderful day.

But, alas, success was temporary, albeit seven-years worth. (Maybe I should write my own book, "Seven Years Without Eyeglasses.") And so we go on, bespectacled and all. At least, as a friend of mine said recently, my name is still written in heaven. Too bad I'll have to squint to see it.