Colin McQueen

I have blue eyes.



Very, very pale blue eyes.

Picture pool water, or maybe a plate you would get in a diner. In addition, I have white skin, so every ray of light that crosses my path tends to do the same, predictable thing: ricochet off my cheekbones and pierce directly into my so-pale-blue-they're-barely-even-a-color eyes.

So I wear sunglasses a lot. And baseball caps. And I'd wear that black stripey facepaint you see on football players too, if I thought I could live up to that brawling reputation. I figure if you can't act like an L.A. Raider, you can't really dress like one.

And even still, even with these layers of shade, I still catch myself squinting. Whenever I'm doing something difficult, particularly outside, my eyes seem to automatically crinkle up and narrow my focus on the object at hand.

I was starting to get self-conscious about it.

Especially now that we're preparing the house nonstop... hauling sticks, watering plants, cleaning the garage... now, for the first time in some time, I'm working outside while Penelope is outside too, and more than ever I'm trying to maintain a somewhat dignified, non-squished facial expression as I labor.

At least, I was.

Now, at last, I've discovered a pale-eyed kindred spirit, a compatriot of translucency, who just so happens to be an Icon of Masculinity as well. "The King of Cool," they even call him. And I say that if Steve McQueen can find a way to squint manfully, there's hope for me yet.

We're both even from the same city.