I’m 1 week past my 40th birthday and I’m going over all the things I’m certain about. There aren’t many. But one of them does relate to my upcoming trip to South Africa so I thought I would share it with you all. Why? Because I can. Feel free to tune out somewhere during the second paragraph if you like. 

Besides the basic levels of mathematics, some science, a little grammar, and history, I guess the three valuable life lessons I know can be easily defined as follows:

1.       I do not look good in hats.

2.       Cats were once revered as Gods by the Egyptians – present-day cats haven’t forgotten this either.

3.       No woman can resist a man who looks good in a Speedo. 

All you have to do to understand lesson two is observe cats and their relationships with their owners. Cats will snuggle, purr, give you attention, but only when the cat wants to. The cat’s mentality is, “fuck this. If Cleopatra thought I was Godly, you will too, you peon that feeds me.” Sorry, that’s just the way it is. I have four cats, I know. As much as I’d love to think they love me unconditionally, I know there are conditions. What those conditions are stay between them, probably changing hourly, and agreed upon around the litter box. Never talk business around the food bowl. Everyone knows that.  

So yeah, your cat loves you. But only when your cat wants you to know it loves you. 

Lesson three is quite simple; but it does come with a big misnomer. No woman, whether it is Scarlet Johansson or Betty White, can resist a man who looks good in a Speedo. Trouble is; very few men do. I won’t begin to tell you I could pull off a Speedo. One of my best friends, who happens to be gay, tells me I can, but I don’t think so. I’m egotistical, yes, but I’m not foolish. I wish I were the type of guy who could pull off a Speedo. It’s a proven fact (I’m sure there’s research somewhere), that if a guy can pull off wearing a Speedo, a woman will want to pull it off for him. 

Which leaves us lesson number one – I do not look good in hats. Why is this a big deal? Apparently, and I can attest to this first hand, the African sun can be a bitch. While I do have a full head of hair, I have been told (by both Kirsty and the people at the tour company) that a hat is a must. This saddens me. 

I’ve never liked wearing hats. Even as a kid I would refuse to wear a toque, fearing it would mess up my hair. I didn’t care if my ears fell off. And back in school, I couldn’t have gotten laid if you paid a prostitute for it so I’m not sure why I needed my hair to look good in the first place. I’d wear a baseball cap when out camping and stuff, but I was just a geeky teenager back then and baseball caps are supposed to look big and make you look goofy. The problem is; I still look goofy wearing them. 

I thought I had solved my problem during my second failed attempt at college. I had found a ball cap, emblazoned with the logo of the Detroit Red Wings, my favorite hockey team (despite growing up in Edmonton, Canada where the Edmonton Oilers, in the 80s, had arguably the greatest team that ever played). The brim was curled just right, had suffered the perfect amount of wear and tear to make it look soft and supple. The inside rim had that faint hint of sweat stains that signified you never took it off. And I would wash my hat every couple of weeks as well. It was, in a word or nine, the only hat that ever looked good on me. But it wasn’t to be. 

The hat was borrowed one day, I think along with the giant plastic penguin I got from the restaurant chain Earls (they had these 2 foot tall penguins wearing sunglasses in all of their restaurants and I managed to get one [you’d be amazed what dimples can do]), by the girl who lived in 1703. We were in 1509. Her name was Michelle. We all liked her, but none of us got near her. Well, I suppose I got near enough to her so she could borrow my hat. She vanished two days later, leaving school, a 34-D bra hanging on our door handle, and a trail of broken hearts. I never could say “no” to a Michelle, Kimberly, Natalie, or an Alison for that matter. I’m a sucker at heart. 

Skip ahead many years and many failed relationships between my head and a hat. My head has no favorite type. He’s not shallow or snooty. He’s tried South American (the Panama hat made in Ecuador), Mexico (the sombrero – but only when drinking tequila in restaurants), and American (baseball caps galore). He’s tried to be fancy (bowlers, trilbys, driving caps), and he’s tried to be cool (fedoras). He’s tried bucket hats, berets, beanies, and hats in the shape of a moose head, complete with fuzzy antlers. No hat has fit and looked good since that one tattered red Detroit Red Wings ball cap.  

I have as much trouble with sunglasses. My face is pretty narrow and my ears big – finding the right pair is a pain-staking process. It’s a tough life I lead. 

As of now, I have a choice of two in my closet; neither of them perfect. 

One has been with me to Africa before. The second, well, it's been to Thailand and doesn't really suit Africa? 

My search will continue until I find that perfect hat: if at all. I think I can live without one, my wife tells me otherwise. Maybe I won’t find one until I arrive in South Africa. Maybe I won’t find one until I find Michelle again and request my old hat back. Not that I remember her last name. 

And she better have my damn penguin from Earls as well. 

Cheers