Not jaded yet

There she is again: “pretty-girl” at my left, and my niece “R******” at my right. “Will you please button that dress? With a smile like that, you don’t need to be a loose woman.” (In the photo-booth.)

—Yrs Trly wonders why I keep being drawn to that picture of “pretty-girl.”
She kept being attracted to me, or so it seemed. (“Impossible!”)
I have this crazy notion that maybe the reason they switched to a different table was so my niece’s ex-husband could get “pretty-girl” away from me.
(“DREAMIN’!”)
Over and over again I look at that picture. I even have it on my kitchen-wall to remind myself I’m still in the real world — post stroke and after my beloved wife died.
I keep other things on my kitchen-wall related to females I know.
My sense of reality was utterly destroyed with my stroke and my wife dying.
I admit I enjoy the cleavage, although there isn’t much.
It’s a designed-in trait: I’m a guy and she’s a girl.
She’s not Stormy Daniels, but she’s not flat.
But every time I look at that picture I think to myself “Will you please button that dress! You don’t have to be a slut. Your smile is fantastic; eyes too. You’re a joy to face-to-face!”
I sure hope my niece’s ex isn’t treating her like a dishrag. She’s only 21, and he’s 40.
I’d like to think he takes good care of her, but I worry about that dress.
It was rather frumpy, like all it was designed to do was be revealing.
So ex shows up at our shindig with his scantily-clad trophy-girl to demonstrate his sexual prowess.
Yet trophy-girl seems attracted to a 77-year-old geezer who hardly can stand.
What I can do is talk, and let her talk.
I radiate I really enjoy talking with her, which she perceives as I’m attracted to her.
I am, and she likes that.
She sat right next to me, an opening occurred, and she snagged it. It wasn’t me.
I mentioned the loss of my wife, and started crying as I always do.
She tried to console me: how ‘bout that Mr. ex?
Trophy-girl is stroking a 77-year-old geezer who can hardly stand.
I keep mentioning to my Bereavment-Counselor, and many others, that 70 years late I’m finally discovering the absolute and incredible JOY of interacting with women.
“You’re not late,” that counselor says. “This was the perfect time for you.”
Thinking about this (“get ready with the remote Luke!”), I’m so far along in years I doubt I can become jaded about women.
I’m having so much fun with women I doubt I could ever become jaded at all.
Not long ago a neighbor cut down a dead tree for me, and we got to talking about women.
“I’ve had it with women,” he said. “Never understand ‘em; they drive me crazy.”
“Not this kid,” I said.
“Girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.”
And here comes “pretty girl,” smiling and eyes flashing, eager to strike sparks with me.
Here we go! “Talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!”
Pointless yammering, but I get to hear her pretty voice, and she gets to have a dude talking with her.
My brother near Boston collects Harley Davidson motorcycles.
I collect “friends who happen to be female.”
If it’s Monday it will be *****. If it’s Tuesday it will be ******. If it’s Wednesday it will be either of two lifeguard friends.
If it’s Thursday, Saturday or Sunday I chance meeting my pretty jogger friend again along Lehigh Valley RailTrail. Friday may be another lifeguard friend. And Saturday or Sunday may be two or three “friends who happen to be female” at my supermarket — plus the innumerable pretty strangers with whom I may strike up conversations.
And last weekend it was “pretty-girl” in Massachusetts, who I probably will never see again in my entire life. What a shame!

• There was at least one other “pretty girl” at this wedding shindig, a “looker” with very shapely legs. She knew what she had, so she flaunted ‘em on the dance-floor; tossing aside her split skirt. Nice to ogle, but I preferred my 21 year old “pretty girl.” After all it was she that struck up our conversation. Most women there were overweight.
• Would that I could give the names of each weekday friend. The Internet is loaded with loathsome lotharios, and I don’t want my “friends who happen to be female” being stalked. I’ll spill the first letters: Monday is “E,” Tuesday is “A,” my three Canandaigua YMCA lifeguard friends are “C” and “A” on Wednesday, and “J” on Friday. My three supermarket friends are “C,” “M,” and “N.” I don’t know the names of my jogger friend or “pretty-girl.” And Tuesday it looked like pretty A***** wanted to talk, and I couldn’t. (“She was just socializing!”)