Elvis

Most mornings, I put on the same shirt when I get up. I have no idea what style of shirt it is – it's soft cotton, with a collar and a zipper half way down the front.

The reason it's my shirt of choice is that with the collar and the zipper, there's only a slim chance I'll put in on either inside out or backward, which has often been a concern with clothing the first half hour or so after I wake up.

The other morning as I was brushing my teeth, I glanced in the mirror and noticed the collar was flipped up.

“Wow,” I thought, “with that collar up I look like Elvis.”

Not young Elvis, but mid-Vegas Elvis, which is, in all honesty, still a pretty good Elvis.

My wife was on the treadmill, and I ambled in to show her how I looked with my collar flipped up.

“Have you noticed,” I asked, “how when my collar is flipped up, I look like Elvis?”

She said, “Yeahhh.” It was weird, because she was saying yes, but it was almost as if she had a tiny question mark in her voice. But, you know, as people age sometimes their pronunciation can be a little off. I didn't want to make her feel bad, so I didn't point it out.

I did point out the other similarities, in addition to the collar. For example, Elvis had blue eyes.

Nailed it.

I also read that he originally had blonde hair, but dyed it black to better set off those blue eyes. There's a chance that the hair-dying ship has sailed for me, but it's enough to know that we both hit the ground with the same hair color.

When Elvis was in the eighth grade, he got a C in music and his teacher said he had no aptitude for singing. Yet again, a startling coincidence with just the slightest difference. My music teacher never said anything out loud, she'd just sigh deeply whenever I came into the room. Could have been worse – a band teacher who'd been in our school for about twenty years gave me tuba lessons for a year and then abruptly left town.

It's not like The King and I are perfect twins. Early in his career he was called “The King of Western Pop,” “The Hillbilly Cat,” and “The Memphis Flash.” Sadly, I don't think I've ever had a nickname, unless there's one out there I've never heard, and in that case, let's keep it that way.

Then there's the difference that he died rich and famous at 42. I'm neither rich nor famous, but I am still alive, so I'm calling that a win.

I explained all this to my wife, while carefully adjusting my collar into place, because how much can a woman stand. She nodded and agreed, and I left to start breakfast. As I walked out of the room I heard her singing, softly, “Wise men say...”

You know the next lines. She could have picked a far worse Elvis song, so I'm calling that a win, too.

Copyright 2025 Brent Olson