My problem isn't another G.L. Marshall on the other side of the world.

    It's Mrs. G.L. Marshall.

    And she's just about perfect.

    Now as much as this illustrates my luck, it's not nearly the jolt I got the first time I ran into this "could be my double" phenomena. That one started simply enough.

    "Hey, I saw you in Playgirl."

    ***

    My weakness for redheads being as well documented as my bad luck, I need to say that yes indeed, Mrs. G.L. Marshall is a redhead. She's tall, athletic, a skilled teacher and the loving mother of an adopted orphan. She's got a 50,000-watt laugh, a smile that can stop traffic, and most importantly of all, she has a husband. She does indeed live on the other side of the world -- 13 hours and a days difference if I remember correctly. To complete the karma, she has a mirror image on the other side of her world, her identical twin sister back stateside.

    For the record, I've never met that Mr. G.L. Marshall and truthfully only know the Mrs. marginally. But I know enough to be reminded of the old joke; the man who named his son after himself: "Lucky Bastard Jones."

    Back in my reporter days, and back a couple of last names for Mrs. G.L., I spent a day teaching her class. I always thought teaching would be my second career (the web got in the way) but that day, stupidly enough, remains one of the top experiences of my life.

    I got to stand and deliver from the front of the room. I got to feel the eyes of the jocks and the pretty girls, the losers and the stoners, the bored and the shyly bright -- and I got to see with all of them just when and where and if I was connecting. I got to feel success and I got to feel first-hand the teacher panic of being in the middle of a sixth period class, and after talking about this stuff all day, wondering if I'd just said the same thing twice. But the kid-like coolest thing of all? I got to sit in the teacher's lounge.

    I can't thank her enough for that day. Somewhere on the other side of the world, my (five dollar word alert) doppelganger got a goose that day, and probably wondered why.

    ***

    Once the woman told me I was in Playgirl, I didn't quite know what to say, except to note that nobody who looked like me would ever wind up a centerfold. It took awhile to get my hands on a copy, and while perusing the magazine with my girlfriend (a column in itself sometime) we turned the page And There I Was.

    It was a feature on football widows, and what to do about getting the man away from the game and interested in sex (a ludicrous premise, but nevermind). The photo illustration had a shapely woman wearing nothing but a football jersey bumping and grinding her way to his attention while the fellow was straining to peer over her shoulder and watch the game. My hair. My eyebrows. My eyes. Perfectly me, except of course, it's not.

    I was deprived of one of my most epic lies -- "Yo dude, check out this picture and let me tell you what's up with that!" -- because she wouldn't give me the mag.

    That was a lesson in itself. If your girlfriend hangs on to her Playgirls, take it as a hint.

   ***