After hefty deliberation and five bowls of granola, I decided that I was heading toward a metaphoric abyss -- and that I needed a haircut. My misguided trek toward doom began a year ago when I received a calling that spelled out the meaning to my life.
The first letter entered my ear as a ripple of wind might softly brush across the tops of meadow grass: E. The second letter teased my ear hair much as the first one did, slithering down my auditory canal like a consonant on a Slip 'N Slide made of home-brewed wax: N.
I started getting antsy. It was like I was on "Wheel of Fortune," only whenever I'd try spinning the wheel, Vanna White would shake her head "nuh-uh" and wiggle her sequined body over to a letter of her own choosing. It was Vanna gone wild, but not in the sense of the topless college girl at Mardi Gras. She had a secret agenda that was so obviously against standard "Wheel of Fortune" game show conduct.
Buy a vowel? Nope, sorry. Vanna wasn't selling her stuff, and Pat Sajack, her stern but fair pimp-daddy and letter lover, was MIA. Patience might be a virtue, but Vanna had to be subdued! I promptly whipped out my "Cliche Pop Culture Expressions to Shrilly Scream When All Else Fails" book, flipped to a page, pointed, then screamed:
"SHOW ME THE MONEEEEEEEY!"
The calling muttered something under its breath before hissing, "Enrique Iglesias! Your calling in life is to travel the country impersonating Enrique!"
At first, I couldn't believe the calling was going to spell all that out. I would have been on the phone forever, and my calling plan is not the greatest. It's like, if you're going to play Spelling Bee, then how about you NOT call collect, OK? OK.
Next, I just couldn't believe that I was the chosen one. Me!
My momma always would pat my head, look at me knowingly and coo, "Jacob, baby, yousa gonna be somebody someday." And I always assumed that she meant I'd grow into an autonomous young man, who would land a dream career in the public limelight after a meteoric rise to the top -- all the while establishing himself as the social pillar of his community.
Never did I imagine that I'd actually be somebody else, let alone a Latin lover. I am terribly Caucasian, you know. My voice does not hover above the tremulous octave of accented passion.
I sound like Steve, that dude who sells Dell computers. The verbal crutch on which I hobble gimpishly is "dude," and I've never been outstanding at pillow talk. If the phrase, "Take me," passes breathlessly through these lips, let me finish before you jump to conclusions. I want to go somewhere.
Like, "Take me
to the Waffle House, because, dude, my car's out at U-Hall." And the breathless factor has more to do with childhood asthma, not establishing any sort of heated, on the verge of sin, sock-it-to-me-hot-mama while silhouetted by candlelight, type mood.
I'd be more inclined to shrug my shoulders and say, "You wanna?" rather than rip off a corseted bodice from a heaving bosom. How could I ever be "You can run, you can hide, but you can't escape" Enrique?
I decided I needed a mole. My mole couldn't be glibly dismissed as a beauty mark, either. I wanted a bulbous mole the size of Texas with the color and consistency of an amicable tick -- there for facial fashion, not blood, of course. It would reside prominently below my sub-nose equator line, and could double as a third eye.
So, I got resourceful, and stole a neighbor girl's ethnic Barbie doll and super glued its shaved head on my chin. My Enrique transformation had only just begun though.
So, I stole a yarmulke from my neighbor girl's brother. I could have bought a rainbow-colored beanie from the mall, and it would have been a perfect match to Enrique's own bald spot cloak, but I didn't want to. The neighbor kids are cocky and they taunt my terrier. Burglary is my coping mechanism.
Terrorizing elementary school children aside, I finally owned the part.
I looked sooo Enrique.
Well, that or like a red-headed Jewish boy with a severed Barbie head mashed to his dimple -- but same difference. I was Iglesias' superficial twin; but his mannerisms, his soul, were still left for me to conquer.
That's why I signed up for a special night course. Two grueling months and a bachelor's degree in constipation-emoting later, I could karaoke "Don't Turn Off the Lights" with the same Kournikova-fetching fervor as my template.
Enrique 101: Next time you order a sandwich, ball up your right fist and shake it with zeal when you say, "I want turkey." Say each word as if you are speaking to or about a forbidden lover. Think of the sandwich not as turkey on wheat, but as moist passion on wheat. Then, when you specify a condiment, violently toss your left hand up to your head, and twitch as if seized by a fit of epilepsy. "I desire MUSTARD!"
Close your eyes, and pause (one, two, three) and then
look the lunchmeat maiden in the eye while groping an exposed pectoral and say, "Hold the mayo." Turn, and strut away.
I spent half a year living my life as Enrique would when I received yet another calling. "Jaaaaaacob, Jaaaaaacob, join a circus." At this point my family had purchased caller ID.
"GRANNY!" It was Granny Hostetter, dude! Messing with my mind like so. It was as if I confronted that wayward Vanna on "Wheel of Fortune" and socked her in her sparkly stomach, then yoinked off her face only to find a grimacing Golden Girl beneath.
All was exposed! She projected her unhealthy Latino obsession upon her eldest grandson in some whack Freudian, "I'm off my medications" episode that left me with a permanent Barbie facial appendage.
Then she goes and switches up my purpose in life because she wants Barnum & Bailey connections? I hung up the phone and spent the remainder of the day bingeing on granola and pondering my future
Enrique impersonation wasn't my dream! It was Granny Hoss'.
Although impersonating Enrique would have been highly lucrative, in the end, I know I wouldn't have been fulfilled.
My calling became clear when I thought about those little neighbor children crying upon discovery of their missing possessions. I could become a villain in a live-action Disney production.
My life felt complete, and the granola inhalation subsided. Then I got a haircut.
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