“Is this who I think it might be?”

—I asked that to a pretty young mother who looked like my aquacise-instructor’s daughter.
We were in the back hallway of the Canandaigua YMCA. I was leaving after our aquatic balance-training class.
Mother was shepherding her little boy who looked like my aquacise-instructor’s new grandson.
“Is this ******?” I asked.
“No; his name is ????????. (I don’t remember.)
I only mention this because 10 years ago I wouldna said anything. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” That was Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. (Her husband was probably fooling around.)
Had my parents, also hyper-religious, come to my defense, Hilda woulda crashed in flames. But they heartily agreed: I was disgusting and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
A lot has changed since my wife died eight years ago.
Part of it is my dog, a gorgeous Irish-Setter. “Oh, what a pretty dog!” So begins another conversation with a smashingly beautiful girl.
My age helps, I guess. At age-76 I’m harmless.
So the pretty girls are piling up, the ones I was scared of over 70 years.
Last August a really pretty girl told me what women love most is laughing. And I make ‘em laugh. 10 years ago I would have avoided that pretty girl, but I’ve had so many successful conversations I’m no longer scared.
Usually the one striking up a conversation is me. (“Oh, a talker, eh?” They love it — I’ve had it happen. [A post-office clerk talked my ear off.])
Here we are, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton again. “Just get over it!” friends tell me. “Hilda and your parents are all dead.”
“Easier said than done,” I say. “I been carrying that albatross over 70 years, and now, at long last, I can talk to pretty girls.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves, 14,000 RPM, enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, two hour classes per week — plus a third hour on my own.
• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s eleven, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).