Charm

—“I saw that!” I said to a lady in my supermarket the other day.
“Saw what?” she asked. She was a complete stranger, and per COVID-19 we were all wearing masks.
“You twinkled your eyes at me!” I said. “Yer doin’ it now.”
“You are cute!” she said.
There you have it readers: Yrs Trly is a charmer.
I can imagine the torrent of blustering I’ll get if I say I’m a charmer. A fusillade of noisy put-downs claiming I’m DREAMING.
Critics will chime in, telling me I’m stupid and EVIL and disgusting — the same sorry litany I been hearing all my life.
A few notice the difference, the same difference I notice myself.
I no longer am who I was before my wife died. I’m emerging from my shell.
My cleaning-lady notices, as does my bereavement-counselor, and even some of my critics: “he’s much more outgoing than he was before.”
“You’re a-payin’ all them people to be your cheering section,” bellows my brother. “They tell you what they think you wanna hear.”
Most noticeable to me are all the lady-friends I gained over the past few months. This wasn’t supposed to happen: “No pretty lady will have anything to do with you!” A legacy of my early childhood.
For years I kept to myself — the only reliable judge of my self-worth was ME; for everyone else I was disgusting.
Perhaps the one who notices most is Killian’s previous owner — Killian being the fantastic Irish-Setter I lost over four months ago due to cancer.
I always tell Killian’s previous owner Killian was the one who took away my fear of pretty ladies. Killian wasn’t afraid of pretty ladies, so I shouldn’t be either.
“Oh what a pretty dog. Can I pet him?”
Here I am talking to yet another pretty girl!
“You are perfect!” a pretty young jogger told me.
“Perfect” because I struck up a conversation without hitting on her. Then I commented I was so glad I said something to her.
Honesty goes over so much better than deviousness.
I could detail many pleasant experiences, many of which happened because of Killian.
The cutest girl at my pet supply loved Killian. “Oh what a friendly dog!” —Nuzzle-nuzzle!
“Yer hittin’ me with them eyes again!” I’d say.
I got so I could talk with the cutest girl in the store — even without Killian.
And telling a girl she has pretty eyes is charm.
“Go ahead, say it! It will make you both feel good.”
“‘No pretty girl will smile at you,’ yet here you are smiling at me. Mask or not, your eyes tell me!”
I’ve told many girls they have pretty eyes, and I haven’t been smacked yet. What I usually get is a smile or a blush.
“Take the risk,” my bereavement-counselor tells me. “Both you and she will feel better for it.”
“70 years late,” I tell that counselor; “and not much time left.”
“Keep charming,” Killian’s previous owner tells me. “It probably was always in there.”
I’m like an uncle who sold cars for a south Jersey Ford dealership, and was very good at it.
He probably was charming his customers. Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em smile! They wanted to buy from him.
“You’re funny!” a lady-friend tells me.
“You’re smiling at me, I can tell!”
We laugh and smile at each other.
Charm, and I’ve gotten very good at it — probably because the rewards are worth the risk.
“Go ahead, tell that girl she has pretty eyes.“ (Assuming they are.)
“Why thank you!” she gushes.
Charm the other day: I struck up a conversation with a lady being walked by her Doberman.
15-20 minutes of pleasant talking. I thought she might wanna continue. (Critic-alert).
But NO, she wanted to talk. (Women seem to love talking.)
“You’re smiling at me,” after which her smile broadened. Charm-alert.
“Well,” I said; “I’m glad I said something. 10 years ago I wouldna.
Striking up a conversation always works.”