Keep doin’ it

—Since my wife died eight years ago, Yrs Trly has been seeing a bereavement-counselor for probably five of those eight years.
A friend who lost her husband had been seeing the same bereavement-counselor for eons; even before her husband died.
My bereavement-counselor is more a psychiatrist = we spend most of our time discussing my difficult childhood.
What she does most is listen: to my continuous and disjointed blathering about what I endured as a child.
“MARKED-FOR-LIFE!” I always say.
And now, 70 years late, I’m finding my hyper-religious parents and Sunday-School superintendent neighbor were WRONG!
“NO PRETTY GIRL WILL TALK TO/SMILE AT/ASSOCIATE WITH/HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!”
(“Pretty” meaning sexually attractive I guess.)
That’s a wonderful thing to tell a five-year-old little boy, that he was disgusting.
And of course if my Bible-beating parents had to come to my defense, that Sunday-School superintendent neighbor woulda crashed in flames.
But they heartily agreed, since I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
(As first-born, I probably had it worse than my other siblings.)
My childhood is pretty much left behind, so that’s not what we discussed this most recent visit.
This time we discussed what appears to be my incredible success engaging women — and whether I’m just dreaming.
Critics tell me I’m dreamin’ to think my lady-friends enjoy my company.
It’s hard to think they don’t when they don’t back away, push me off, or tell me to buzz off.
My lady-friends at the kennel that daycared my dog all run to the door to let me in.
My college-age friend at that kennel seems jealous she has to share me with the others.
When we do get to hang together, just me and her, she smiles and smiles and smiles. She looks happy to me; she’s not backing away.
I’m sure the fact I’m not hittin’ on her makes her happy. All we’re doing is talk-talk-talk-talk = enjoying each other’s company.
Dreamin’ I’m told, but the one who cuts off conversations is ME.”
“We could talk forever, but I’d like to eat my breakfast cereal before 4 p.m.”
“Just shootin’ the breeze, just you and me, would be fun, but groceries await.”
I had a pretty lady sigh we had to stop talking (“back to work,” sigh……).
I did have one lady balk, but she quickly reversed field as I walked away.
“****,” I said to my hairdresser; “I’m 76 years old, I walk like a little old man, and I’m hardly a stud. Yet I got ladies hanging all over me!”
“You encourage ‘em to talk,” he said. “You make ‘em laugh, and that’s what women want most. Plus yer not putting ‘em on the defensive.”
So I asked my bereavement-counselor if my critics were right.
I have so many successes, it’s hard to think I’m just dreamin’.
“They’re not doing what you’re doing; and they probably can’t. If your wife was still alive, she’d be jealous you ‘flirt’ so much.”
The definition I have for “flirting” may not be right. I'm told “flirting” is trying to connect sexually.
All I do is talk. No grab-ass. I guess that makes me safe.
Per my childhood just talking with a woman was “flirting,” especially if they liked it.
“Evil and disgusting.”
Unfortunately I like it too, since it reverses my childhood, and I’m makin’ ‘em smile.
“One of my critics is a widow,” I said. “And I enjoy hanging out with her — she smiles and laughs at my jokes. Plus unlike many she doesn’t think I’m hot-to-trot.”
“Probably all your lady-friends understand that,” my counselor said; “otherwise they’d be pushing you away.
Plus talk-talk-talk-talk, and not just about yourself.
As long as they keep smiling at you, you’re making ‘em feel really good.
Keep doing it!” my counselor says. “Don’t listen to your critics = they don’t understand what you’re doing.
Your lady-friends do, and they love it. You tell them they’re pretty, but yer not hittin’ on ‘em.”

• RE: “Kennel that daycared my dog…..” —Nearby is a boarding kennel, where I used to daycare and board my dog, who I recently had to put down. They want me to keep visiting.