Misadventures with Mrs. ******
—“Been vaccinated against COVID-19 yet?”
It was Mrs. ******, my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
She was behind me, suddenly blurting her concern for me.
No eye-contact beforehand. I blurt myself, although I try to establish eye-contact first.
She probably couldn’t.
What I perceive is her trying to maintain what interest I had in her since we go back years, and I made the mistake of thinking her interested in me.
(Enter critics bellowing: “DREAMIN’!”)
Not long ago Mrs. ****** finally gave me her borders. Most of my lady friends are married. They gave me their borders early on:
“I like you liking me, but be careful. You’re a pleasant distraction, you make me feel attractive; but I’m married!”
No borders from Mrs. ****** for years. And now that I have ‘em, she seems a little distressed I backed away.
She makes a fuss over me, but it’s just talk, which I love doing — with all my lady friends.
Talking with ladies reverses my sordid childhood — “No pretty lady will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are disgusting!”
I question whether I can regain my friendship with Mrs. ******. Too many mistakes have been made.
She picked the worst dude in the world to attempt to befriend; a guy whose experience with women was nil.
Regrettably she was the first attractive lady to smile at me — my wife is another story — and I blew that all wrong.
Then she wanted to walk dogs with me. Totally incomprehensible to a graduate of the infamous Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.
Three times in quick succession = she’s interested in me.
I texted her way too much, but she responded to many of my texts, often immediately.
She tried to stoke my interest in trains (I’m a railfan). My wife wasn’t a railfan either.
A lot has changed since my wife died; nine years ago this coming Saturday.
I’m no longer who I was back then, and sadly my wife doesn’t get to experience who I became.
Mrs. ****** exhorts me to “keep evolving,” and apparently that’s what’s happening.
70 years late I emerge from my shell — probably much to the angry chagrin of Hilda and my Bible-thumping parents.
But unfortunately it seems the person I’m evolving into goes beyond remaining friends with Mrs. ******.
I know she means well, but too many prior mistakes on my part.
It was Mrs. ******, my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
She was behind me, suddenly blurting her concern for me.
No eye-contact beforehand. I blurt myself, although I try to establish eye-contact first.
She probably couldn’t.
What I perceive is her trying to maintain what interest I had in her since we go back years, and I made the mistake of thinking her interested in me.
(Enter critics bellowing: “DREAMIN’!”)
Not long ago Mrs. ****** finally gave me her borders. Most of my lady friends are married. They gave me their borders early on:
“I like you liking me, but be careful. You’re a pleasant distraction, you make me feel attractive; but I’m married!”
No borders from Mrs. ****** for years. And now that I have ‘em, she seems a little distressed I backed away.
She makes a fuss over me, but it’s just talk, which I love doing — with all my lady friends.
Talking with ladies reverses my sordid childhood — “No pretty lady will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are disgusting!”
I question whether I can regain my friendship with Mrs. ******. Too many mistakes have been made.
She picked the worst dude in the world to attempt to befriend; a guy whose experience with women was nil.
Regrettably she was the first attractive lady to smile at me — my wife is another story — and I blew that all wrong.
Then she wanted to walk dogs with me. Totally incomprehensible to a graduate of the infamous Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.
Three times in quick succession = she’s interested in me.
I texted her way too much, but she responded to many of my texts, often immediately.
She tried to stoke my interest in trains (I’m a railfan). My wife wasn’t a railfan either.
A lot has changed since my wife died; nine years ago this coming Saturday.
I’m no longer who I was back then, and sadly my wife doesn’t get to experience who I became.
Mrs. ****** exhorts me to “keep evolving,” and apparently that’s what’s happening.
70 years late I emerge from my shell — probably much to the angry chagrin of Hilda and my Bible-thumping parents.
But unfortunately it seems the person I’m evolving into goes beyond remaining friends with Mrs. ******.
I know she means well, but too many prior mistakes on my part.
• Thank you Hilda! (Marked for life!)
posted by BobbaLew at 2:43 PM
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