BUNK!

—“Here she comes,” whispered the tiny voice in the back of my head my hyper-religious parents told me was the Devil Incarnate.
“Say something to her! DO IT! Don’t be scared! You’ve done it before.”
I was hiking west on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and a fairly attractive lady was jogging toward me.
“I used to do that,” I said to her.
She stopped.
“Do what?” she asked.
“I used to run,” I said.
And so we began: “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”
“At least you’re still out here,” she said.
“Right!” I said. “77 years old, and I still can do it.”
She removed her sunglasses!
This is serious readers. Our eyes met. She wants to talk with me.
Pointless yammering. I like hearing her voice, and I’m not avoiding her.
“So glad I said something,” I said to her.
“Striking up a conversation always works. People wanna talk, especially women.”
“I’m glad ya said something too,” she said.
What’s happening here readers? I in effect told that lady she attracted me. Not lust; I just wanted to talk with her.
And perish-the-thought, I think she liked that. I was making her feel attractive. And not sleazy attractive.
“*****,” I would say to my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool; “I’m not used to this!”
***** knows my past somewhat: “No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL!”
Yet ***** talks to me, and probably was the first female to say hello to me without reason years ago. She probably was just being sociable.
I’m always stunned these little encounters with ladies work as well as they do.
My past tells me they won’t. Infer to a lady I wanna talk to her, and we strike sparks. “No lady will wanna talk to you!” Yet so many do.
I’ve had it bomb occasionally, in which case my bereavement-counselor tells me to try someone else.
Which I do; too many smashing successes have occurred.
My hoary past is reversed. The infamous Hilda Q. Walton and my Bible-beating parents spin at 14,000 rpm in their graves!
“If it’s fun it’s sin” was BUNK!
I bet that lady was happier when she finished running.

• As a result of my wife dying, I see a bereavement-counselor once a month. She’s become more psychiatrist, except she can’t administer drugs. Most times we talk about my dreadful childhood, and my recovery therefrom.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there). 14,000 rpm is enough to power Florida south of Orlando.