A week ago, a year ago, what is time anymore? All I know is I was drying off from my second shower of the day, brushing my luscious locks like a male Rapunzel and I noticed a gray hair. One could write hairs but I already wrote hair so I’ll stick with that. Except then I kept brushing and brushing as Rapunzel does, since her and I are entirely alike minus that I do not live in a castle and I was not imprisoned by Rasputin. Unless that’s confusing fairly tales because I think he might’ve had to do something with the woman and the sewing or whatever it she did. Regardless, I saw gray hair. Hairs. Flecks of gray! Some may call them silver, the some that are calling them silver is me because that sounds much better than gray. The older sexy men are called Silver Foxes, not Gray Foxes, not Gray anything. Gray is associated with the color palette of the new Justice League cut and those 50 Shades films. Two things I’ve never watched! Although I did read the first novel in the 50 Shade series and it was god awful. The point is, maybe it’s the stress of working an overwhelming job that seems to consume the majority of my mental space. Maybe it’s the stress of living through a year+ long pandemic that consumes about all the other unfilled head space. Maybe it’s due to me being 58 years old and my parents lying about my actual birthdate. Or maybe it’s because I’m the reincarnation of George Clooney.

Listen, I know George Clooney is alive with his Italian wife and billion dollar tequila empire or whatever it is that he does. I am not saying I am the reincarnation of George, for the record I call him George. I know he’s alive making Netflix movies that people don’t watch and those who do watch tell him he should stop worrying about directing his own films and just going back to making good ones. It could be telling about me that I saw some silver flecks in my hair and my first thought was how I was a younger, huskier, handsomer version of GC. Some people see those irregularities in their full head of hair and think off to the hair dye section of my local pharmacy I go. Those people are people that we call losers. People that are unwilling to accept that some things change as you grow older and life decides to punch you in the mouth over and over and over again. Those people don’t turn into George Clooney, those people bring back the toupee industry because they’re the same type of folks who will not come to terms with their impending hair loss and instead wear baseball caps to every occasion known to man. I’ve accepted my destiny, I’ve accepted that I’m the next George Clooney. Or the current George Clooney. If he wants to give up his liquor empire to me, who am I to stop him? If I’m picked to star in Ocean’s 14, then I’ll gladly accept the offer. If they want to reboot ER only 5 or so years after they ended it, with me as one of the star doctors, yeah, I’ll do it. It’s not easy to accept reality sometimes, but it’s so much better if we stop resisting what father time has in store for us.

This is the first in my series of blog posts reflecting my mental deterioration over the past year. Maybe in the next few weeks, I’ll find myself unable to keep a shirt on and I’ll compare myself to a mid 2000’s Matthew McConaughey. Or more like I’ll pick up Scientology and become the next Tom Cruise. Finally, there’s a possibility I’ll have a frame of reference that aren’t exclusively male white actors aged 50 and up. I can only hope so. Until then, be on the lookout for HouseFriends by George Clooney 2.0, my future literal translation of his tequila brand that apparently he sold in 2018. I spent like 5 minutes doing research of his films and tv shows and history of his life to make a hilarious joke to end on and that was the best I could come up with. I acknowledge that it’s bad and I’m very aware. So it goes.