Like a lot of folks, I’m an
egomaniac with deep-seated security issues. Some days, I think I’m the greatest
thing since sliced bread; not just any sliced bread, but that good stuff from
Arnie’s Bakery that goes for over three bucks a loaf. Other days, I feel like
something that should probably be scraped from the sole of a dairy farmer’s
boot.
Since going into semi-forced
retirement, my appearance reflects this fact. I’ve found that when you’re not
going into an office regularly, have no meetings, and your wife is away at work
all day, well, personal grooming becomes optional, rather than mandatory.
Where once I shaved daily, it’s
now a twice a week affair, maybe three times if I’m expecting a visit from the
Pope or Queen Elizabeth. At least one day each week, I don’t bother to shower;
I just roll out of bed, dress and slap on an old fishing cap that Mrs. Taylor
(formerly Lori Frankforter) hates a lot.
But then, a couple times a week I
pull the full Monty; I shower, shave, dye some of the grey out of my beard,
brush with the electric toothbrush that does a good job but takes forever,
floss, trim the errant hairs attempting to escape my ears, put “product” in my
hair and dress in clothes that have had the wrinkles taken out of them with an
honest-to-gawd iron.
I do this so Mrs. T (fLF) will
have something to remember me by other than the fishing cap. Just in case she
meets an amorous tennis pro who’s into ladies of a “certain age.”
It’s not an ideal situation, but
one that seems to work for me.
With one exception.
That’s when I go out in public.
To the grocery, the mall, the movies.
I’m not famous, but my ugly mug
is in the newspaper every week and has been for years. Regular readers of this
column (Hi Norm and Flo!) recognize me when I’m out and about. Often, they want
to tell me why they liked a particular column, one I may have written years ago
and have now completely forgotten. Other times, they want to check the accuracy
of something I wrote. I always lie and assure them everything here is 100
percent true.
I don’t mind being approached in
the frozen foods aisle or in the ticket line at the theater. In fact, I like it
a lot. In what other job do strangers stop you on the street to tell you how
much they enjoy your work? I used to be an elementary school janitor and lemme
tell ya, nobody ever came up to me in the lunch room to let me know what a wonderful
job I’d done cleaning the toilets.
So, yeah, it’s great.
The only downside? It always
seems to happen on a fishing cap day, when I look like Quasimodo’s stunt double
and smell like the floor of a chicken coop. When I’m wearing sweats and sneakers
with holes in the toes. When my ear hair is long enough to hang Christmas
ornaments from.
It never fails. Days when I leave
the house smelling of Old Spice, my hair neat and combed, my teeth fully
brushed – basically, an exact duplicate of Kevin Costner in his prime – well,
on those days … nothin’. I could hang a sign around my neck saying, “Please ask
me about my ‘Reality Check’ column,” and I’d get nothing but blank stares.
But put me in torn Bermuda shorts
and a pair of dollar store flip-flops? All of a sudden I’m Justin Bieber in a
room full of 13-year-old girls. Everyone knows me.
There are those who would say
this is Karma’s way of lessening my innate egomaniacal tendencies and
increasing my deep-seated security issues. But I’ve never trusted Karma. It
never seems to strike down the folks who need it most, while the good guys keep
dropping like flies.
Anyway, this is all just my way
of letting the nice lady (and regular reader) I recently met at the hardware
store know; I don’t always look like that.
And please, please don’t post
that selfie you took of us by the power washers on Facebook.
(616) 745-9530
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