People approach me several times a day to tell me that I look like someone else. It’s usually some actor from a show, or their cousin the podiatrist, or a sandwich they remember fondly. I guess I just have one of those faces.
Occasionally I give into the compulsion to ask those people whether they meant the comparison as a compliment or in just a sort of observational ‘I enjoy hearing my thoughts spoken outload’ type of way and, if the latter, whether they ever felt attraction toward the actor, family member, or meal with whom they believe I look like. My inquiries are almost always met with a decisive “No!” followed by the jittering of their eyes in search of their husband or the waiter or a police officer who, I should note, I also look like. I told you, I just have one of those faces.
Being a man with the sort of familial movie star good looks of a pretty decent-for-the-price egg-salad sandwich (nothing to write home about, you know, but it won’t make you ill (which is more than you can say about some egg-salad sandwiches!)) has opened up a good number of doors for me. That may not seem impressive to you considering people will usually open up the door if you knock long enough, even if just to tell you to shove off before they call the police (who, as you will remember, I look like), but my universal appearance has allowed me to crash several high-profile parties and state dinners through the years by just simply showing up and waiting to look like someone else.
Most recently I went uninvited to a wedding where I was mistaken by all in attendance for the groom. Not wanting to disrupt the day’s events, but still quite hungry, I intended to stay only through the hors d’oeuvres, but became caught up in the excitement of my wedding day and continued the charade for much longer than anticipated: ultimately marrying the young bride and accompanying her to St. Croix for our honeymoon. The trip, perhaps predictably, hit a sour note when on our third night I confessed that I was not technically the man she intended to marry—a man who I have learned showed up to the church just a smidge late and, upon seeing his fiancé exchange nuptials with a person whom he believed to be himself, supposed he was having an out of body experience; a revelation that prompted him to leave the church in search of answers and walk around for a bit to ponder the meaning of life and whatnot.
This is all to explain that I am unable to attend tomorrow’s marketing meeting as I am still stranded in St. Croix, having been kicked out of the hotel by my soon-to-be-annulled spouse and without the immediate funds to return home. I have taken work where I can find it—mostly clerical and light fraud work—and should have enough funds for my return by the close of Q1. In the meantime, I have taken room with a group of Dutch travelers who have mistaken me for their mate Stijan and have graciously agreed to let him pay them back upon their return to Eindhoven.
Thank you in advance for your understanding,