Friday, January 17, 2003
Dear Diary:

"So what does THIS tee-shirt say?" I asked G. this morning, peering at his newest gym wear. G. is a bit younger than I am, a big man--must be pushing 6'3"--and is probably in the range of 225 pounds of pure muscle.

He immediately blushed, as I knew he would, beginning at his forehead and stretching all down his neck. He has one of those infectious laughs that draws everyone around him into it. My day is always a bit brighter when our paths intersect.

We have been sharing a running joke for well over a year and a half now, going back to my first membership in the gym. One day he wore a tee-shirt he'd had printed to advertise the bed and breakfast he runs with his longtime companion. In largish letters across his very broad chest the tee-shirt read, "Breakfast Included."

Well, the first time I saw it I could not resist. I gave him my most over-the-top Groucho type leer, eyed him up and down with mock lasciviousness and said, "All dat AND BREAKFAST TOO! Honey, sign me up!"

We have been gym buddies ever since.

It can't be easy being a gay man in a rural area such as this. I mean, I realize that there's enough homophobia out there to make being gay difficult anywhere, but I would think that it would be simpler to be "out" in the relative anonymity of a large urban centre.

Yet G. chose to leave a large urban centre to come to the small village where he now lives because of the beauty of the place. He is well and truly out and never makes the slightest effort to hide who he is.

It's very odd, but I feel most comfortable talking about body issues with this person who looks as if he could crush walnuts with his bare hands. He understands perfectly how it feels to worry that the man who loves you will find you less and less attractive as the habit of long knowing and age continue to take their toll.

Oh, and we both worry about our legs not being shapely enough. It cracks me up that we do.

I am extremely jealous that he always has great hair. My last good hair day happened sometime in June, 1969, the night of my high school graduation dance and party. That night I was kissed by Dave McKenzie, a boy I had been crushing on for approximately three years.

I think we can all agree that this incident says all that needs to be said about the awesome powers of good hair. Sadly, today was a particularly grim hair day.

I hate to say that I have bad hair, because, after all, if you start throwing labels around, then maybe certain objects will start to feel that they just live up to the label. So instead, I prefer to say that I have Hair That Has A Mind Of Its Own.

If I just wash it and let it air dry, it does this unruly wavy thing which is barely acceptable. However, if I'm in a rush and I blow dry it, well, my hair lets its Inner Juvenile Delinquent out. My hair being fairly long and white, on the days when it lets its Inner Juvenile Delinquent out the spousal unit has been known to eye me and ask, "And where is the rest of the coven?"

.:cough:.

I was in a rush to get to the gym today so the hair was blown dry. I hit the border in Full Coven Mode. I rolled down my window to talk to an American customs officer I hadn't seen before and I could see him eyeing me suspiciously.

With my unruly hair, four earrings in each ear, and visible tattoo on my left wrist I probably looked to him like either "Marn, Ticking Time Bomb of Terror" or "Marn, Drug Runner Extraordinaire."

"Citizenship?"

"Canadian"

"Were you born in Canada, ma'am?"

"Yup."

"What's the purpose of this visit?"

"I'm going to the gym. Oh, and I'm going to mail some candy to a friend." I waved the illicit chocolate egg goodness at him. He studied it. I fully expected to be hauled into the office and the tube of eggs smashed in case they held contraband. He turned back to me.

"Do you have any photo ID?"

"Yup."

"Could I see it, please?"

I hauled out my driver's licence. It's been a while since they've been this touchy at the border. He studied my licence closely. Fortunately, the picture had been taken on a day when my hair had been air dried. It tipped the favour in my balance, and I was allowed to enter the U.S.

And what can we learn from this?

Good hair: you get kissed by a very cute boy who played bass guitar in a band that played covers such as "Hang on Sloopy" and "G.L.O.R.I.A."

Bad hair: you could be refused entry into a foreign country.

Clearly, as you can see, you can never place too much importance on good hair.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer 34.24 miles - 55.09 kilometers
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

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Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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