Critics in repose

—“If I knew you were up here, I’da used self check-out so I could say hello to you.”
I said that to ***** manning my supermarket’s self check-out.
***** is rather plain, and would have no idea who Søren Kierkegaard was. She’s probably late 40s or early 50s.
No matter! I know *****, and ***** knows me: “haven’t seen ya in a while,” she said. “Happy to see ya!”
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt learns the consummate joy of meeting people.
***** doesn’t hafta be equivalent to my extraordinary wife, nor my cousin ****. Just meeting ***** is as pleasant as talking philosophy.
Same with other employees in that store; pretty *******, who always smiles at me, and ******, who says hello before I even notice her.
Plus all the unknown ladies I’ve told have pretty eyes or a gorgeous smile.
Eyes are all we see anymore, and I can’t escape that supermarket without encountering gorgeous eyes.
I haven’t been smacked yet; no huffy walkaways.
“You are cute;” and “you are so sweet!”
“You were shy,” my brother declares.
“Ever consider that Bible-beaters made me shy?” I asked. “No one will talk to you! Just keep to yourself, Bobby!”
Wonderful things to tell a five-year-old little boy; marked-for-life by Bible-beating zealots.
One of my friends, who also happens to be a critic, suddenly walked into the store and noticed ***** and I were talking.
As my friend roared past, she began warning ***** to be careful with me; that I was questionable, mayhap?
***** and I were clearly enjoying each other (GASP!), much to the disbelief of my friend.
It’s the same sorry litany I been hearing all my life.
“***** will not wanna associate with you!” Yet there we were.
Prone to self-loathing, and always thinking poorly of myself, I’m an easy mark for critics.
Parents, siblings, friends — they mean well, but “your problem is……”
Thinking poorly of myself, I am nothing when people start badmouthing me.
What I usually do is in-one-ear-and-out-the-other.
Makes ‘em madder still.
What I end up doing is strike sparks with my lady friends to feel better about myself.
Enter ***** et al. They counter my hoary childhood, whereby “no pretty lady will ever be interested in you!”
***** isn’t that pretty; in fact she isn’t very pretty at all.
But she is female, and “no female will ever be interested in you! You are REPREHENSIBLE!!!!”
Yrs Trly noticed a few weeks ago that returning home after chasing and photographing trains with my brother in Altoony (PA) is no longer as depressing as it once was.
“Back to reality,” I used to say to my wife as we aimed homeward. Even after she died, it remained “back to reality.” (April 17th will be nine years.)
But now “reality” is no longer as depressing as it once was. It’s my lady friends, and ***** is one of them.
Back to ******* with her pretty smile, plus my numerous lifeguard friends at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool, plus my pleasant female contacts on Lehigh Valley RailTrail. Plus all the women I haven't befriended yet but surely will.
Those that determined my fear of women — my parents and that Sunday-School superintendent neighbor — have all faded into my filmy past.
Self-loathing and withered self-confidence remain, but even my critics are fading into my filmy past.
I’ve had so many mind-blowingly successful female encounters, I just can’t believe my critics anymore.
I take risks that earlier seemed inconceivable.
Ladies seem to love the attention: “hooray-hooray, a guy who wants to talk to me, and he’s not hitting on me. He’s not trying to take me home as a trophy. He wants to hear what I say.”
I strike up a conversation with a pretty young girl, and she is thrilled.
The first time I said anything to pretty *******, I fully expected to get smacked, or at least told to get lost.
She’s a big sturdy girl, but she turned and smiled at me — that made her a pretty little thing.
What a reward that was; incentive to try again.
So “hello *****,” among many others; “happy to see ya!”
And perish-the-thought, ***** is happy to see me.
This is all new and pleasing to one raised by Bible-thumping zealots.