Continuing pool-side ruminations

—“No pretty lady will ever talk to you!” I said to my pretty lifeguard friend two years ago at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool. “And you did!”
My lifeguard friend blushed. Slight, but noticeable.
What did I do here, readers?
I backhandedly told her she was pretty; not propositioning her, nor hittin’ on her.
It was an aside. She’s 65 now; she probably was 63 back then.
I bet few tell her she’s pretty, but she is impressive. On her lifeguard stand she looks like she’s in her 40s.
“Here I am bopping north on Sand Road,” I told her the other day; “and a lady appears in front of me walking roadside.
‘I hope it’s not *****,’ I think to myself. ‘I won’t know what to say to her.
Not *****!’ I shout. ‘Arms are too flabby. ***** doesn’t have flabby arms.’
I slowed, but I didn’t stop,” I said. “I didn’t want that lady blowing me in to the Sheriff. How do I know you’re not gonna do the same thing?”
(***** runs, and often along Sand Road.)
Saying ***** doesn’t have flabby arms might make her feel pretty.
Beyond that, ***** is coaching a dude severely scarred by overly judgmental Bible-beaters.
That also may be making her feel good.
“While you were in Florida,” I told her, “I tried to strike up conversations with two of your pretty young cohorts.”
We both paused a few seconds, then ***** laughed.
It’s like she knew I was gonna say “I crashed mightily in flames.
A lonely hot-to-trot widower,” I told her.
She knows I was so messed up by the Bible-beaters, she puts up with my many flubs and faux pas.
Is she a “bleeding-heart ‘liberial’” as my sister would stridently exclaim? (I been told “liberial” is the correct CONSERVATIVE spelling.)
Maybe!
She endured a lotta insanity.
I turned her off twice. But then she returned, forgiving me I guess.
I’m not used to this, readers. My father was always keeping score.
My ability dealing with women is negligible. I always avoided ‘em; I was scared.
I wonder what my wife would think if she ever met *****.
She wouldn't be saying “what in the world does he ever see in her?” My wife would be saying “what in the world does she see in him?”
I admit that’s more me then my wife, but I puzzle at some of the extraordinary lady friends I gained over the past couple years.
Many are gorgeous, and ***** is rather impressive.
How in Hell’s name did I befriend so many pretty ladies when I’m hardly a stud, I’m 77 years old, and way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
I think of pretty ***** at my pharmacy, the pretty young jogger on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, plus the surfeit of smilers, laughers and blushers I struck sparks with since my wife died.
The older lady who kept smiling at me as I talked to her in front of my supermarket.
The fortyish bicyclist who kept smiling and smiling and smiling at me — I can still visualize her! She wasn’t that pretty, but WOW!
Or the lady walking her dog along Ontario Pathways at the Canandaigua Outlet Bridge. At least 25 minutes of continuous yammering, and she kept smiling and smiling and smiling at me.
She became embarrassed because her husband wasn’t with her, and we were having so much fun just talking.
A female cousin in NC tells me what women most want is men eager to talk; and I guess I am.
“No pretty lady will talk with you!” Versus: “let ‘em talk!” “Talk to me! I’m all ears; and if I may say so I really enjoy hearing your pretty voice.”
***** is more than a “pretty voice.”
She reminds me of my wife; she’s an entirely different person; she’s not my wife (who was extraordinary), but from what interchange we’ve had I can tell the marbles are probably up there — just like my wife.
She’s pleasant to look at, but more pleasant to talk to. Physical attractiveness was replaced by mental attractiveness.
A few weeks ago she remarked she noticed my much-improved eye-contact.
Others probably also noticed, but I think only marbles draw a conclusion.