Dirty old man

—“I shoulda known,” my physical-therapist wailed.
I was in Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department practicing going into and outta doors.
This was because the day before I fell into a display-case at my supermarket.
It was narrow, and there was a guy there stocking the display case.
I needed to get into an adjacent refrigerated display to get Eggbeaters® avoiding the stockman.
The refrigerated display opened out, so I had to open it without clobbering the display-man.
Opening that refrigerator-display knocked me off balance. Still on my feet, but I tipped into the adjacent display, knocking stock all over the floor.
“Did I break anything?” I asked. Stockman was horrified.
Nothing was broke, but “are you all right?”
So at Physical-Therapy we would practice opening, going through, and closing doors.
All require specific body motions automatic to those unaffected by neuropathy or a prior stroke.
The first doorway we tried had a handle on one side, and a push-bar on the other side.
What we needed was a door with handles on both sides.
“I see one over there,” said my therapist.
It was a small darkened room, but “I see someone in there,” I said.
She was young and very attractive, prettily fingering her laptop.
“All we need is your door,” my therapist said.
My first try was with my therapist: fully analyze what body movements I’d need. Nothing is automatic at my age.
“Now, by yourself,” my therapist said, as I closed her behind me.
“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “Ya got me in here alone with a pretty girl. She's liable to think I’m a dirty old man!”
Take note, readers: I was backhandedly telling a girl she was pretty. And she was pretty.
There have been other occasions when I’ve done that, some more direct. But ten years ago I couldna done that.
Another major step forward for someone with the childhood I had.
“No pretty girl will ever associate with you!
Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”