Crushed dreams

Martha and I were at an art supplies shop this evening procuring materials for her upcoming Polaroid exhibition in Madison, Wisconsin, when I came across something so foolish and pointless I had to have it. A pack of seven assorted stick-on mustaches hung temptingly before my eyes, bright yellow packaging mocking me, demanding I take you home. A mere $3, knocked down from $5, a sin to leave behind. “That wouldn’t get you a gallon of milk for jaysus sake,” I pleaded. She was having none of it. The woman had put the foot down.

Each mustache had a name and a day of the week it was to be worn. There was “The Sheriff,” which could give an ominous, menacing and steely edge to my persona.

There was “The Barber,” thick, heavy and hanging just over the upper lip. A tough, red meaty face would need to accompany this number. Something for the weekend perhaps.

The list goes on.

I’m 26 for God’s sake! What could I possibly want with seven fake mustaches? Laugh if you wish but it’s hard to deny that a set of photo portraits with me sporting a different mustache in each wouldn’t be the funniest thing this side of Christmas.

It’ll happen. She’ll let her guard down. A weak moment will present itself. I’ll make an excuse that we need a half dozen eggs, slip out to the car and drive and break-neck speed to Roseville, pick up the mustaches and hide them in a bush outside the house. Then, when she’s out someday I’ll spend an hour or two taking ridiculous photos of myself. Is it a mark of self confidence that I share this tale or a complete absence of dignity?

Oh, it’ll happen.