I never can get outta this supermarket…..

—Saturday morning, go to supermarket, buy groceries for the coming week; yet another fabulous encounter with a pretty girl.
“I can’t do that,” I said as the pretty girl feverishly keyed a text into her Smartphone.
She stopped, turned, and our eyes met.
“WOW!” I thought to myself. “I sure am glad I said something to her.”
Her eyes were gorgeous, and she smiled at me. I almost said something, but didn’t.
Actually her eyes weren’t gorgeous. It was the eye-contact. It meant a pretty girl enjoyed talking with me.
“No pretty girl will talk to you!” Yet there we were. So reversing my sordid childhood.
Saying something to a pretty girl means you thought her attractive — that’s how it gets perceived.
I haven’t been smacked yet; and I think by so doing I made us both feel good.
Go ahead! Say something! —My reward is twinkling eyes and an engaging smile.
From a pretty girl no less.
“Don’t be afraid! You can do it! Don’t be scared! You’ve done it before!”
“I got so fast at it,” she said; “I always do this.”
“Well I sure can’t,” I said. I considered telling her I had a stroke, but I didn’t.
I walked away, and she returned to madly texting.
But I came back to say “I use voice-recognition, but I edit out the flubs — F-bombs for example.”
We laughed and she smiled at me.
DO IT! Say something! And a pretty girl smiles and twinkles her eyes at you!
And the infamous Hilda Q. Walton spins in her grave. 14,000 RPM, enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• “No pretty girl, etc. etc.” was my neighbor Sunday-School superintendent Hilda Q. Walton, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. My hyper-religious parents heartily agreed.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect repaired long ago. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start flailing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).