I did it!
This all came about last week when my incredibly cute Physical Therapist came out to the lobby to greet me and take me back to the Therapy-Gym.
I locked up, as stroke-survivors often do. It’s called aphasia, the inability to get words out for speech; I couldn’t strike up a conversation.
My writing still works fine.
“You have to realize,” I told her the other day; “I had a stroke, and you know that already. I often lock up, and can’t get words out.”
“I also have another problem,” I said. “You’re incredibly cute.”
“There, I said it,” I thought to myself.
“Heh-heh-heh,” she laughed warily, as if to say “Uh-ohhh; another lust-filled geezer hot to hit on me.”
“No, actually I’m a graduate of the ‘Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations,’ whereby I’m totally unworthy of female companionship.”
“I should explain,” I said.
“Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent and neighbor when I was a child. Together with my parents she convinced me I was disgusting, disreputable, and of-the-Devil; that I was only attracted to sluts and slatterns. —No girl approved by Hilda would ever have anything to do with me.
According to Hilda, all pants-wearers were evil.
She actually generated two sons; how I’ll never know.
Her husband must have been a real charmer to get her to do anything at all.
And worst of all, he smoked Lucky-Strike cigarettes. NO WAY could I ever do anything with a smoker.
“Beyond that, we have a business relationship,” I said. “You’re the Physical Therapist, and I’m your patient, client, user, whatever it is today.”
“I’m also 72 years old, no longer in pursuit of procreating the species.”
“Okay, face me.”
I looked her straight in her pretty eyes, which I wish I could portray as a picture on this blog.
She’s really smashingly cute, perhaps 25 or so.
“Thanks to Hilda, I’ve never been able to talk to pretty girls,” I said. “I’m intimidated.”
“Well, I’m not intimidating. You can talk to me. I like it.”
So here I am, eye-contact with an incredibly cute girl; something I thought I’d never do.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
I locked up, as stroke-survivors often do. It’s called aphasia, the inability to get words out for speech; I couldn’t strike up a conversation.
My writing still works fine.
“You have to realize,” I told her the other day; “I had a stroke, and you know that already. I often lock up, and can’t get words out.”
“I also have another problem,” I said. “You’re incredibly cute.”
“There, I said it,” I thought to myself.
“Heh-heh-heh,” she laughed warily, as if to say “Uh-ohhh; another lust-filled geezer hot to hit on me.”
“No, actually I’m a graduate of the ‘Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations,’ whereby I’m totally unworthy of female companionship.”
“I should explain,” I said.
“Hilda was my Sunday-School Superintendent and neighbor when I was a child. Together with my parents she convinced me I was disgusting, disreputable, and of-the-Devil; that I was only attracted to sluts and slatterns. —No girl approved by Hilda would ever have anything to do with me.
According to Hilda, all pants-wearers were evil.
She actually generated two sons; how I’ll never know.
Her husband must have been a real charmer to get her to do anything at all.
And worst of all, he smoked Lucky-Strike cigarettes. NO WAY could I ever do anything with a smoker.
“Beyond that, we have a business relationship,” I said. “You’re the Physical Therapist, and I’m your patient, client, user, whatever it is today.”
“I’m also 72 years old, no longer in pursuit of procreating the species.”
“Okay, face me.”
I looked her straight in her pretty eyes, which I wish I could portray as a picture on this blog.
She’s really smashingly cute, perhaps 25 or so.
“Thanks to Hilda, I’ve never been able to talk to pretty girls,” I said. “I’m intimidated.”
“Well, I’m not intimidating. You can talk to me. I like it.”
So here I am, eye-contact with an incredibly cute girl; something I thought I’d never do.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
posted by BobbaLew at 11:43 AM
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