Charlie Pattinian
Every year, something either changes or is added to my body that I wasn’t born with.
First came gray hair that refused to fall out. Then my molars rebelled after decades of abuse, so I paid a king’s ransom for implants. My dentist said they would last 20 years. Nineteen and a half years later, they started a revolt. I’m trying to prove the implants were embedded with a timer. Then my eyesight caved. My new glasses instantly aged my friends and myself. My audiologist told me I needed a hearing aid. When I shrieked, “What?!” in surprise, he raised his voice and repeated his diagnosis. Two months later, I heard birds, whispered gossip, and the racket from I-19. One day, I was slurring in Canada, but a friend pointed out it happens after my fourth glass of wine. Another time, my face displayed a scarlet tinge. Tests showed that the niacin tablets I was taking to promote a healthier lifestyle caused the flush.
Sometimes I’d rush out of the house and leave behind either my teeth, glasses, and hearing aids—basically everything that makes me functional in society. I can’t remember when all three were simultaneously in their appropriate place. The glasses are not a big deal, because a server would let me borrow theirs to read the menu and find the line for the tip suggestions. Missing teeth simply means ordering pasta or just wine. Missing hearing aids are not so bad as long as my friends don’t mind repeating everything twice at a higher volume. When this happens, we refrain from talking about people in public.
When any of these accessories become uncomfortable, I set them down wherever inspiration strikes: shirt pocket, empty wine glass, brick wall near the spa. Over the years, I’ve lost two sets of teeth, one hearing aid, and uncountable sun and reading glasses. One set of teeth and hearing aids went through an entire wash cycle—wash, spin, rinse, fluff, dry. The teeth were whiter and survived—the aids died. My insurance company immediately added “laundry mishaps” to their exclusions. My glasses have been stepped on, abandoned on transatlantic flights, and sacrificed to the Ganges. The guy at Sunglass Hut greets me like a regular in a sitcom.
Sometimes I forget that I am wearing the accessories. One time, I jumped into the pool wearing my hearing aids. When I resurfaced, my aids sounded like electrocuted insects. I’ve even slept with my dentures in—this gives a new meaning to halitosis.
My wife suggests I get a “male purse” so all my attachable parts—plus wallet, phone, keys, and the directions to our house—will be in one place. All I’d have to do is grab the purse on my way out.
It’s a practical idea, but I’m growing a magnificent ponytail. And a man with a mustache, ponytail, and a purse is just one accessory away from being classified as a Bohemian.