DO IT!
—One of my three friends at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool, all of whom happen to be female (“GASP”), takes me to task for striking up conversations with women.
I should be as eager to strike up conversations with men, as if my preferring women indicates sexual compulsion.
Sorta, but men are more likely to bomb, whereas women always succeed.
I rendered my example of how a gentleman about took my head off in my supermarket parking-lot when I tried to strike up a conversation.
Or how it’s always the wife who talks to me, if I try to strike up a conversation with a couple.
Or how the wife wouldn’t re-join her husband, because she preferred talking with me.
“And if it’s a dude with a girl: don't even try!
I don't know as my friend’s criticism applies any more, since it’s gotten so I strike up conversations with just about anybody: men, women, frumps, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
The other day I had to go to a supermarket other than the one I usually use, which is in nearby Canandaigua.
I needed my mega-buck whole-bean-coffee, which I ran my Canandaigua supermarket out of.
I went to a new supermarket up in Henrietta, the one I call “The Palace.” It has a spired clock-tower, parapets; everything but a moat.
Amazingly it even sells groceries.
Here comes a frumpy woman in a sweatshirt that says “cancer sucks!”
“It sure does,” I said, striking up a conversation, even with a frump.
“I lost my wife to cancer!” I shouted. “BEST friend I ever had!”
“I’m sorry,” she cooed.
I met her again in a different aisle.
“There’s that sweatshirt again,” I shouted.
She stopped, and we started talking: “the reason I wear this sweatshirt is because I treated cancer patients years ago. Then I switched to women with breast-cancer.”
I choked up a little at “breast-cancer.”
“I lost my wife to breast cancer,” I said. “That was nine years ago, and I still can’t get over it.”
DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! Say something! Men, women, frumps, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
People love to talk; especially women.
It doesn’t matter who any more; I strike up conversations much more frequently than I did even a few months ago.
I do that and I get a frump wishing she could allay my pain.
I should be as eager to strike up conversations with men, as if my preferring women indicates sexual compulsion.
Sorta, but men are more likely to bomb, whereas women always succeed.
I rendered my example of how a gentleman about took my head off in my supermarket parking-lot when I tried to strike up a conversation.
Or how it’s always the wife who talks to me, if I try to strike up a conversation with a couple.
Or how the wife wouldn’t re-join her husband, because she preferred talking with me.
“And if it’s a dude with a girl: don't even try!
I don't know as my friend’s criticism applies any more, since it’s gotten so I strike up conversations with just about anybody: men, women, frumps, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
The other day I had to go to a supermarket other than the one I usually use, which is in nearby Canandaigua.
I needed my mega-buck whole-bean-coffee, which I ran my Canandaigua supermarket out of.
I went to a new supermarket up in Henrietta, the one I call “The Palace.” It has a spired clock-tower, parapets; everything but a moat.
Amazingly it even sells groceries.
Here comes a frumpy woman in a sweatshirt that says “cancer sucks!”
“It sure does,” I said, striking up a conversation, even with a frump.
“I lost my wife to cancer!” I shouted. “BEST friend I ever had!”
“I’m sorry,” she cooed.
I met her again in a different aisle.
“There’s that sweatshirt again,” I shouted.
She stopped, and we started talking: “the reason I wear this sweatshirt is because I treated cancer patients years ago. Then I switched to women with breast-cancer.”
I choked up a little at “breast-cancer.”
“I lost my wife to breast cancer,” I said. “That was nine years ago, and I still can’t get over it.”
DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! Say something! Men, women, frumps, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
People love to talk; especially women.
It doesn’t matter who any more; I strike up conversations much more frequently than I did even a few months ago.
I do that and I get a frump wishing she could allay my pain.
• At least 15-20 strike-ups today at Boughton Park. “Here they come:” “Say something!” (Only one girl avoided; she looked nasty.)
posted by BobbaLew at 7:01 PM
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