I’m as Handsome as a Leading Man in a Canadian Drama Series, and It’s Ruining My Life
by guest writer Trent Halvorson, Insurance Claims Processor, Regional Division B
Look, I didn’t ask for this face.
Every morning I wake up, look in the mirror, and see a man who could easily play the divorced but tender-hearted detective sergeant on Halifax Watch or maybe the rugged kayak instructor with a haunted past on Saskatoon Shoreline Rescue. And every morning, I curse this cruel gift.
I’m not Hollywood handsome. No. I don’t have that aggressively jawed, Marvel-cast, eight-syllable-last-name kind of face. What I have is Canadian Drama Lead Handsome™: soft eyes, a hint of perpetual concern, and the rugged but attainable charm of someone who absolutely has a snowmobile and absolutely cries during Sarah McLachlan commercials.
You’d think this would help in life. It doesn’t. It gets me exactly three things:
Unwanted attention from CBC casting interns at Tim Hortons.
Confused looks from TSA agents who think I’m “that guy from Trent & Justice.”
And worst of all, unrealistic expectations.
Last week at the office, someone rear-ended a forklift. I got tasked to figure out who. Why? “You just seem like the kind of guy who always takes charge in the final ten minutes to solve a mystery,” my supervisor said, gesturing vaguely like she was about to fade into a montage set to The Tragically Hip.
Even my dog thinks I’m about to make an emotional confession about my late wife while carving a canoe paddle. I don't even own a canoe. I'm terrified of beavers.
And the dating scene? Don’t get me started. I take one woman out for poutine and she stares at me with trembling eyes like I'm going to tell her I’m secretly a widowed father of twins trying to save the community center. I’m not. I live alone in a duplex and my most emotional burden is my unreliable Brita filter.
I’m tired. I want to go back to being just regular-man handsome. A man who can buy nasal spray without being asked if it’s for “voiceover continuity.” A man who doesn’t have to pretend to know how to fix a dock. A man who can walk into a community theater without being handed the lead role in Loon Lake Blues.
But I know that’s impossible now. This face is my burden.
My soft-lit, emotionally available, subtly complex burden.
I guess all I can do is embrace it. Smile pensively into the middle distance. And wait for the next mid-budget, regionally funded dramatic pilot to find me.
Until then, I’ll be in the breakroom. Practicing looking conflicted. And making decaf.
—Trent