“I been thinkin’”

—I’d say that to *****, my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
And I better say “pretty,” because if I don’t she might be hurt.
It’s like ****, a receptionist at Thompson Physical-Therapy, to whom I gave my annual train-calendar because she always smiled at me every time I said hello.
**** was thrilled some dude cared that much about her.
I always said hello, because I figgered she’d be hurt if I didn’t.
I always knock on the glass enclosing Thompson’s Physical-Therapy lobby. I became friends with two pretty ladies inside per COVID-19.
One is extremely pretty.
I knock on the glass because they might be hurt wondering why if I didn’t.
No hurt lady-friends, so ***** is my “pretty lifeguard friend.”
“Be careful with that thinkin’ jazz,” I was long ago told at the Mighty Mezz. “Thinkin’ is dangerous!”
***** is the lady to whom I told “my wife would say I flirt too much.”
“You’re not flirting,” ***** declared. “All you’re doing is striking up a conversation. It’s not flirting unless there’s evil intent.”
“EXACTLY!” I shouted. “No evil intent.”
My wife died over eight years ago, and I been on-my-own ever since. I miss the companionship = no one to talk to.
But no desire to remarry. I was lucky to do as well as I did. My wife was extraordinary.
My wife might switch from “flirting” to “strike up conversations too much.”
Enjoying the company of some lady other than my wife would be threatening to my wife.
Understandable. She was almost as badly brought up as me. That’s why she could endure my madness.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!” I was long ago told. “No talking, no smiling, no female friendship whatsoever. You are DESPICABLE!”
That was my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor. My Bible-Beating parents heartily agreed. I was rebellious and disgusting because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
That “despicable” albatross hung over me 70+ years. And now, after losing probably the best friend I ever had — she actually liked me — I emerge from my hoary past.
That’s exactly what I’m doing.
Striking up conversations, especially with pretty ladies, negates my sordid childhood.
And sadly my beloved wife woulda been fragile enough to feel threatened. Striking up conversations with ladies is so thrilling I do it too much.
“Hooray-Hooray; a guy who likes me as a person instead of as a trophy.”
Conversation begun, we talk and talk and talk and talk some more.
And usually the lady smiles at me, which admittedly I fish for.
“No pretty lady will smile at you” yet “you’re smiling at me; I can tell.”
“You’re cute,” a lady said after I noticed her twinkling her eyes at me.
“You are so sweet!” another lady whispered after I told her she had gorgeous eyes.
Stuff like that wasn’t supposed to happen to a lifelong scumbag. “No pretty lady will enjoy your company. You are disgusting, Bobby.”
So you nailed it, *****. “Striking up a conversation” instead of “evil intent.”
It is such fun to this kid, but my wife would feel threatened.

• My brother and I photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars as Christmas presents.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 15 years ago. BEST job I ever had. I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)