“I can talk to pretty girls!”

—“Here we go again,” I say to myself.
Another one-a them self-celebratory blogs about triumphing over a dreadful childhood — at the hands of religious super-zealots.
I worry about this. All too many blogs have have been published about triumphing over my parents and the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my neighbor Sunday-school superintendent when I was a child. (Click the link if you need explanation.)
Hilda and my parents convinced me I was stupid, disgusting, evil, and Of-the-Devil = a wonderful thing to tell a child only five years old.
For my parents I was rebellious, that is, unable to worship my holier-than-thou father. My mother came around as I got older, realizing my father was losing me.
If my parents had come to my defense when I was five years old, Hilda woulda crashed in flames.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt was thereby marked-for-life.
Only two or three people understand my childhood; and that’s among thousands I’ve met over 76 years.
One is my 89-year-old aunt — soon be 90. She was born in 1930, the height of the Depression, and her mother continually told her she was unwanted.
Another is a cousin, the only child of my uncle Rob. Uncle Rob once told me anyone named Robert was automatically disgusting. My name is Robert, my grandfather’s name was Robert, and my uncle Rob was also a Robert. We all are in deepest doodoo.
“I don't know how my father ended up being as decent as he was,” my cousin tells me.
“Marked-for-life” equals terrified of pretty girls. “NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” equals “I can’t talk to her, she’s gorgeous.”
People wonder how I even managed to get married. I say it’s because my wife liked me from the get-go.
My mother had already picked out someone who would “straighten-me-out,” but I was rebellious.
My wife’s mother had already picked out the perfect mate for my wife, who my wife couldn’t stand.
My wife also had a difficult childhood. It was mainly her mother, and also a nearby aunt who declared her “heathen” for not attending church.
So my parents were mad at my marriage-choice. And my wife’s mother predicted we wouldn’t last four months.
44&1/2 years, and now that my wife is gone (she died of cancer eight years ago) I begin to be able to talk to pretty girls.
It’s partly my dog: “oh what a pretty dog,” followed by “here I am talking to yet another pretty girl.”
70 years late I’ve gotten so I can talk to pretty girls. I find this so amazing, I write about it too much.
Totally surprising and mind-blowingly unexpected.
My doggy-daycare kennel has a cute co-owner, who always wants me to talk to her.
She singles me out.
10 years ago I couldna, but now I love that it’s happening.
That co-owner is chasing me?
UNBELIEVABLE!
And she is only one of many. I’m apparently doing the right thing, which is “make ‘em laugh.”
My uncle Rob did this. He sold cars for a South Jersey Ford dealership, and was very successful at it. People wanted to buy a car from him because he was funny.
Last August an extremely pretty girl came over to talk to me at a party. With so much prior experience, I wasn’t terrified.
We talked and talked and talked and talked, and I was looking her straight in the eye.
10 years ago, eye-contact would have been utterly beyond the pale. Without eye-contact “he doesn’t wanna talk to me.”
When I left, I told her “it sure was pleasant meeting you.”
Again, UNBELIEVABLE!
I find myself saying similar things to other pretty girls: e.g. “I sure am glad you didn’t quit,” and “but you’re here!”
10 years ago I couldna.
A pretty jogger ran past me on Lehigh Valley rail-trail, and all I said was “don't stop.” She turned around and smiled so broadly she woulda lit up the entire woods.
I find myself blurting-out like that, and woman seem to love it.
“What do I need a sweetie for when I had one 44&1/2 years?” I.e. I’m no longer in-the-hunt.
And apparently I’m doing what women want; which is “talk to me, make me laugh, make me feel good.” And it’s not being done by some lecherous Trump wannabee, who would be threatening.
What’s more important is what I’m getting away with is revolutionary.
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO YOU!” yet I attract ‘em like flies.
Hilda and my parents spin in their graves!

• Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail is hiking-trail converted from Lehigh Valley Railroad’s old Buffalo extension. I get on about eight miles north of where I live.