Chapter Forty Five; Things could be Worse: At Least I don't Look Like Hulk Hogan

“You know who you look like?”

The waitress at the local pizza joint smiles at me through her thick glasses. I smile back, politely inviting her observation even though I know exactly what she is going to say.

“Heather Locklear. You look just like her!”

Immediately she recognizes that her remark is probably not the first time I’ve heard it, “Oh, I bet you get that a lot don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit and quickly express my appreciation, “but thank you so much. She is beautiful, I am flattered.”

Honestly, I do get it a lot. Probably a couple times a week. Vegas was ridiculous, I think I heard it four times in one day. And every time I seriously think to myself, “Are these people on crack? Have they SEEN Heather Locklear?”

I have stood in the mirror and looked at myself from every angle, silently moved my mouth around as if I am in conversation, and even blurred my vision assuming that every person who makes this comment is in desperate need of updating their contacts prescription. Or drunk.

I don’t see it.

I really really don’t.

My hair is pretty much hers, that much I admit. But if you threw a blonde mane on Barak Obama and he would just turn into a bad version of Dennis Rodman, hardly Heather-licious. Therefore I am pretty sure it isn’t just the hair.

The only thing I’ve been able to determine is when I am just sitting there, not smiling, I look vaguely like someone who could be a distant cousin (thrice removed).

I think its the eyes. They’re slightly similar.

And let me underscore slightly. Mine are blue like hers. True. But not a shockingly deep mesmerizing ocean blue. Mine have this little ring of yellow around the iris. Yellow? Who has yellow eyes.

Zombies.

Meth Addicts.

Mine are more like a lagoon than a sparkling sea.

Trust me, if I have to be plagued by a resemblance to a celebrity, I am just thankful I am not routinely compared to Hulk Hogan or Drew Carey.

Yeah. Not so fun.

This week I noticed my twin sista was on the cover of People magazine. (And no, that is not my copy buried beneath Newsweek and Time in the basket next to my couch. I don’t know how that frivolous trash got in my house. Someone call the periodical police!)

Unfortunately, she was gracing the cover due to a personal crisis. As if the fact that Richie Sambora running off with her neighbor/best friend/turned mortal enemy, Denise Richards (Charlie Scheen’s ex-wife) last year was not enough, now she is in treatment for depression. (Isn’t it amazing the celebrity gossip you can absorb simply by osmosis in the grocery check out line? I would never actually READ People magazine. You can’t prove anything . . .).

I wondered briefly to myself, what on earth does someone with so many blessings have to be depressed about?

Hmmm, well, I am guessing even celebrities aren’t immune to emotional trauma. Last time I checked, even though they do live on different planets than the rest of us, they are still very much human.

I felt badly for her.

Life is hard. It just is. For all of us. And big blue eyes and a killer mane of blonde hair is not guaranteed immunity from adversity and sadness and disappointment.

Lord knows I still spent much of the last year bawling my blue lagoon eyes out.

So here’s to you Heather. Thought I’d jot a little note and let you know your look-a-like obscure blogging twin out here in the Midwest wishes you the best and hopes you find peace and healing.

But I’ll have to warn you.

In some distant future, when your Bon Jovi guitarist bad boy husband who screwed your best friend is a distant memory and you’re feeling better, I may have won the Pulitzer for Commentary and grabbed my own little slice of fame pie.

So I should warn you:

A couple times a week you’re going to have smile and nod politely when the clerk at your favorite store observes, “You know who you look like?”

Oh yeah, you know it, girlfriend.