“If it’s fun it’s sin”

—“Just talking to a pretty lady isn’t ‘flirting’.”
So said a friend regarding my joy talking with pretty ladies.
“Thinking talking to pretty ladies is ‘flirting’,” she added; “is Hilda Walton defining your terms,”.
“‘Flirting’ is trying to talk someone into a date.” That’s not what I’m doing, but talking to pretty ladies sure is fun. I thought I’d never be allowed, and I’m 76 years old.
Constant-readers know all about Hilda, and how she sanctimoniously excoriated every male/female relationship, no matter how innocent, as disgusting and evil.
“FRAUGHT WITH SIN, I TELL YA!”
Had my parents, as hyper-religious as Hilda, come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed. They heartily agreed: I was stupid and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
One wonders how I attracted a wife. She was pretty, or could be. Her mother convinced her otherwise.
My counselor suggests we were well-suited for each other, both having difficult childhoods: me a complete wreck, and my wife convinced she was a frump.
We left that all behind, although I was still afraid of pretty ladies. Social contact I avoided — and not just pretty ladies.
Now, since my wife died eight years ago, introversion averted.
My dog is partly responsible, a gorgeous Irish-Setter especially attractive to ladies.
“Oh what a pretty dog” = “Oh what a pretty girl.”
My dog is a chick-magnet. He led me into shooting-the-breeze with people I previously avoided, especially pretty ladies.
I got so I could talk to pretty ladies. I got experienced at it. It got so the one striking up a conversation is usually me. And not just pretty ladies.
It became extremely pleasant, especially the pretty ladies. It was mind-blowing. No more introversion.
“That girl is gorgeous,” I’d think to myself. “Yet she seems to wanna talk to me.”
For 70+ years I was scared. Not any more.
“Oh,” they say to themselves; “a talker, eh?” And off-we-go. Often it’s me stopping us: “Well, we can’t talk forever,” or “I hafta hit the grocery.” Thereby ending 5-10 minutes of pleasant yammering — plus “Oh what a pretty girl.”
It’s so exhilarating it must be sin. That’s my background. Raised by zealots quick to pass judgment.
So I call it “flirting.” It’s probably not, but I never expected it. I was vastly unworthy.
“You were lucky,” my counselor tells me. “You married just what you needed. I’m sure she looks down and is thrilled.”
“No up,” I say. “She, like me, was an unbeliever.”
“Go directly to Hell, do not pass ‘go,’ do not collect $200. Hell for you, baby!”

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“If it’s fun it’s sin” is the best headline I ever used, but it’s stolen.
A guy with whom I graduated college said it a lot.
He, like me, almost got canned. Our college was hyper-religious. He was alcohol and probably marijuana, and I was just an “attitude-rap.”
Were it not for professors wanting me in their classes, I mighta actually got canned.
I’d be rotting in some ‘Nam quagmire.