Eskewpades

  HIPPY-DIPPY HORMONES Just call me Grandpa Groovy. I’m undergoing a new stage in life. Cutting my second set of fantasy false teeth, as it were. A recurrence of midlife mischief. The pandemic has unfortunately afforded me more time to gaze at my bee-yoo-tee-ful reflexion. As expected and dreaded, my face has indeed acquired considerably more character lines than when I cut my first set of metaphorical choppers (and temporarily possessed a red Ferrari). This time, as fate would have it, one scary surprise has devolved: the hair on my arms, legs and chest have vanished. Without waxing.   But one ace in the hole has lain under my cap for years. I still have a huge load of head hair. Hasn’t even turned gray. Yet. Except my beard. So, as a natural born narcissist, I dye my beard to match my head hair. Well, matches, except when I become preoccupied during the dying process and leave the dye on too damn long.   And I do that all the time. Scariest sight I’ve ever seen in a mirror. Terrifies

HELP! STRAIGHT MAN TRAPPED IN GAY PERSONALITY Contrary to local folklore, I harbor no homosexual desires. However, almost all of my male friends (and about half of my male relatives) are gay. Due to the fact that I’m, shall we say, definitely into my feminine side, some gay men simply assume that I, too, am a member of their royal family; others, who have a keen sense of gaydar, know immediately that I’m pathetically straight. Subscribing to the belief that the only difference between a straight man and a gay guy is a six-pack of beer, the gay men who think I’m “a member” have come to accept what some refer to as my “illusion of solid heterosexual desires.” At least, they stopped making passes. It must be tough on ‘em. I’m so damn devilishly handsome. I attribute my sexual ambiguity to the fact that no male role models existed when I was a child. Raised in an exclusively female household, I grew up terrified of men. Now, I’m afraid of women, but I digress.   And yes, I’m in therapy. Pe