Jawing with my aquacise instructor

Following is an imaginary discussion between my aquacise instructor and myself.
The first part will probably happen, but the remainder probably won’t.
“Was your daughter here Tuesday?” I’d ask.
“She was here Monday, but not Tuesday,” my aquacise instructor said.
“I ran into a lady that looked like your daughter in yer Facebook tire-changing post. I said nothing to her.
She seemed short, and there was no grandson,” I added.
“My daughter is taller than me,” my friend said.
“Now,” she said; “how come you were upset the other day? You seemed upset.”
“I decided to retract my landing-gear,” I said. “To no longer be forthcoming with you and *****, and all the other ladies I befriended.
You know my history, and others don’t. Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby all men, including me at age-5, are scum.” Faire Hilda was my next-door neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. My hyper-religious parents heartily agreed, since I was already rebellious and disgusting, unable to worship my father.
70 years late I find they were full-of-it. “‘No pretty girl will talk to you,’ yet here you are talking to me.”
Many ladies love talking to me: “Talk to me, make me laugh!” “I was so surprised it went to my head.
Plus every male/female relationship involves the boy/girl schtick, which I’m no good at; especially after marrying a girl who liked me from the get-go.
I should return to being myself. I justifiably make you ladies suspicious; I become just another loathsome lothario.
Friends are nice, but my best friend is always me.
Sorry for that last text,” I said. “I wasn’t gonna do it, but it’s so easy. That may be the last text I send.”
“I hope not,” my friend stated. “And don’t try too hard retracting yer landing-gear.”
The likelihood of my friend saying that is dreamin’. “Yer problem is you think too much,” says my good friend ******.
“I been hearing that all my life.” My problem is I think for myself.