If you hadn't heard, I'm turning another year older. A whopping 31 years old. And it's happening this coming Sunday, January 29th. That said, this morning, before getting into the shower, I noticed in the mirror the first sign of my new, sophisticated, dignified age: a gray chest hair. While most people would have certainly freaked out at the site of this thick wiry hair, I rejoiced in joyous celebration. Why, you ask? Read on and I will ease your curious mind...
Graying hair is an uncomfortable sign of age and mortality, sure, but gray chest hair is quite the opposite. I have now joined the ranks of Sean Connery and Pierce Brosnan. That's right, folks, I am en route to becoming the next James Bond. No longer will my body be looked upon as that of your average man. From this day on, I can proudly expose my masculine chest and be seen as a suave, charming and mysterious gentleman. Other men will marvel at the patch of salt and pepper that is growing beneath my shirt, and woman will be lost in the sheer desirability of this lush meadow of manliness that grows across my diminishing pectorals. What the Sirens accomplished with sound, my chest hair will accomplish with appearance. The word "irresistible" will be redefined by my flowing mane of dreamy salt and pepper.
Of course, I realize that it takes more than a graying chest to be the next international man of mystery. And that's why I've worked on my British accent. I've mastered it, and I've even added the unmistakable lisp of Mr. Connery's. I sound like a foreigner in my own city. Customs will never believe my American passport. Employers will question my American birth certificate. And women will swoon at the intellectual sound of my voice. I have now become the complete package. All that is dignified, intelligent, charming and handsome. I have taken on the appearance of the a sexy British spy. All I can say now is: "Look out 007! You might have met your match."
