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Married with a Moustache: When Movember Meets Matrimony

Not my moustache.

Is it December yet? Because my upper lip is starting to bug the hell outta me. You see, I’m taking part in Movember, which means I’m growing a moustache (or mo) for the entire month of November (hence “Movember”), thereby drawing attention to men’s health issues such as prostate and testicular cancer. (Wanna donate to the cause?) And while I’m honored to be one of the “Mo Bros” on Doug French’s Movember team, I gotta admit that it’s not going so great.

Except for the fundraising part, that is. Our team’s raised over $11,000. But while fellow BabbleVoicer Joel Stein ponders how to have more sex in his marriage, Movember’s taught me how to have less sex in mine.

And I’m a little surprised. When I was mere tot, I used to ponder my eventual adulthood, and while it was impossible to predict exactly what manhood would entail, I was reasonably certain it’d involve not only a wife and kids, but also a kick-ass moustache. Like, say, the one Burt Reynolds rocked in Cannonball Run.

Yet when I looked around at age 35, nary a wife, child nor whisker could be found. Fast forward seven years and I’ve got the wife and child part handled. But what about the moustache? Young JCO obviously considered it the quintessence of testicularity (not a word, but it should be), so why haven’t I ever grown one?

It’s not like I’m afraid of facial hair. In fact, as a man who shaves only once a week, I live in a constantly stubbled (again, not a word) state. A state which, I might add, my wife and children find attractive.

So when Doug invited me to join his team, I was fueled with optimism that my ‘stache would take me to new heights, just as the ‘stache has done for many others who’ve proudly sported it.

With it, I suspected, I’d possess the intellect of Einstein, yet the fashion sensibility of Sean Connery. I’d paint like Salvador Dali and swim like Mark Spitz. I’d waddle like Charlie Chaplin, but with the confidence of Geraldo Rivera. And I’d nail the high notes thanks to the upper register of Freddie Mercury, which would would prompt Randy Jackson to call me Dog.

But, perhaps most importantly, with a ‘stache, I’d have the sex appeal of Ron Jeremy Herman Cain Magnum PI.

So you can imagine my dismay when I discovered that the lone object of my desire isn’t feeling the womb broom I’m pushing these days. I know. Hard to believe, but it’s true. Caroline’s immune to my enhanced, moustached sexuality. Well, I suppose immune isn’t the right word as, according to Merriam-Webster, that’d mean Caroline’s not susceptible or responsive to the moustache. And believe me, there’s been plenty of response. Like the new salutation she now uses each time she sees me.

Hello moustache man.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked the first time she greeted me as such.

“I think that any part of that,” she said while motioning to my face, “is no longer allowed near any part of this,” she said while motioning to herself.

“I thought you’d like it,” I said, looking in the mirror at the (primarily gray) whiskers sprouting beneath my nose.

“You thought I’d like that scraggly-ass collection of miniature porcupine needles? Sorry Moustache Man, but it screams Just for Men. And if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear an echo of Dork.” 

I’ve tried to handle it with a sense of humor, like say that of Gallagher, but it seems like the only person who’s become funnier with the advent of the moustache is my lovely wife.

“What are you doing?” I said to Caroline one day as she inspected my upper lip.

“Trying to see what you had for lunch, Moustache Man.”

The good news is that it’s already November 21 and before you know it December 1 will be here which will be a huge day for two reasons. First, I’ll finally be allowed to shave this thing off which means my wife will no longer be getting her laughs at my expense.

And second? That’s the day I’m getting my vasectomy.

Hey, wait a minute… I just thought of something. If I keep this wife-repelling moustache, there’s really no need to get a vasectomy. Maybe I’ll be the one who has the last laugh, after all.

Then again, maybe not. This thing looks pretty bad.

I know. I’ve not given you any pictures as proof. But I’ll be doing just that on my personal blog the week after Thanksgiving, so be sure to swing by if you wanna see why I’ve become the butt of Caroline’s month-long joke.

Image: hober via Creative Commons

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