Loose as a goose

—“This is turning into a really fun conversation,” my female contact said. She was laughing and smiling profusely!
“Of course it is,” I thought to myself. “I start talking with a female and we strike sparks.
“You are so much fun to talk to,” a lady once told me.
“We could talk forever!” another said.
“I hope we meet again,” another once told me.
(“Baloney!”)
I was at my supermarket self check-out. A lady was talking to the male self check-out aide, and she was wearing a Finger Lakes Dentistry uniform.
Our eyes met, and “Tell me everything,” I said to her. “I’m looking for a dentist here in town. I gotta drive a half-hour just to go to the dentist. That’s a pain in the neck!”
I did it again readers. The mere fact I said something to her told her she attracted me. (“Toss me that remote Luke!”)
“We’re right on Main Street,” she said. “Do you know where the old Pizza Hut was?”
“Are you kidding?” I shouted. “My wife and I never ate out. We made our pizza ourselves!”
“Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
I’d finished self check-out, but we were talking — and laughing.
A pretty lady once told me what women love most is laughing.
“You guys got a website?” I asked.
“I’ll give you my card,” the lady said. Her name was *******.
“You call this number, and those ladies will tell you if your insurance qualifies.
And they better be friendly, because I’m the Human-Resources manager.”
“Can I talk dirty to ‘em?” I asked.
We laughed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I drove city bus in Rochester so I know all the lingo.
Regional Transit,” I said; “where every paragraph, every sentence, every phrase, and every word was modified with the F-bomb.”
She laughed; she wasn’t offended.
I had a guy take umbrage at mere mention of “F-bomb.” I didn’t actually use the word.
“I am so glad I said something to you,” I said to her. “I usually don’t.
And I made ya laugh — nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
She then helped this old geezer pack his groceries.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.

“Gloster”

—“Can I ask you something?” I asked the lady sitting in a black top-down Porsche Spyder parked next to my car.
“Sure,” she said, smiling.
We were parked underneath the shade-trees next to the youth-baseball Porta-Johns.
That parking lot is where I get on Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“I’m intrigued by your license plate. I’m from south Jersey originally, where G-L-O-U-C-E-S-T-E-R is pronounced the way you spelled it.
“Actually it’s Gloucester, Massachusetts,” she said. “But that’s how we pronounce it.”
Conversation begun: “Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada.”
Smile after smile after smile after smile after smile.
“Goodie! This guy is talking to me.”
“My name is *****,” she said.
“You can call me BobbaLew, or Bob if you wish.”
“Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada.”
Wherein Yr Fthfl Srvnt discovers the incredible JOY of just talking with people.
I notice the license plate; I turn towards the car; a lady is in the car.
Say something to her! Don’t be afraid.
I’m not afraid anymore. I strike up conversations willy-nilly. They never backfire.
“No one will talk to you” recedes into my filmy past.

“It was meant to be”

—So said my pretty little jogger friend the other morning along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
I’m heading back toward my car, I hear footsteps behind me, she jogs past, then stops and turns toward me, smiling, eyes sparkling. (“Broken-record alert!”)
“Oh my goodness,” I say.
“We meet again,” she says.
“Fifth or sixth time?” I ask.
“Can I just say one little thing?” I asked. (Permission readers…..)
“You were thrilled I struck up a conversation that first time we met. And I was thrilled myself that doing that went over as well as it did. I was surprised.
And one more thing,” I asked.
“This morning was hard getting going,” I said. “My wife died nine years ago, I don’t have my dog anymore, I live alone, so sometimes I feel very depressed.
Then I come out here and hike this rail-trail and I meet you.
Why do I always hike this rail-trail?” I said. “In hopes of meeting you.”
“Well,” I thought to myself later; “my dog’s ashes are along this rail-trail too.
Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, nose-to-the-ground, furiously barking into the woods. ‘Critters beware!’”
“That is so sweet!” she cooed. (Same response every time.)
“What kind of dog was he, and what was his name?” she asked.
“Killian, as in Killian Irish-red,” (say it twice); “an Irish-Setter.“
“Awwww,” again.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada”……
At least five minutes of continuous face-to-face yammering.
But I like hearing her pretty voice.
“High five,” she exclaimed, as she readied to continue. (She wanted to touch me: “GASP!”)
Yr Fthfl Srvnt is reconsidering what makes a girl attractive.
I’m beginning to think it’s just that the girl likes me.
The fact my wife liked me is what attracted me to her.
She was plain at first, but flowered into this extraordinary person I could talk to. Philosophy, meaning-of-life, obscure concepts, they all were in there. And somehow or other I got ‘em all going.
We’d complete each other’s sentences, or “I was just thinking the same thing!”
The other day I hiked all the way around Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool to say goodbye to one of my new lifeguard friends.
“Hi Bob,” she smiled, eyes sparkling. (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
I think I made her happy; she radiated happiness. (“She was faking it!”)
Ergo: she likes me. It’s not lust — are you kidding? 77 years old, 40-50 pounds overweight, flabby, and way over-the-hill, although I don’t remember a hill. I’m old enough to be her grandfather!
I’m beginning to think what matters is that the girl likes me. It’s happened all-too-many times already, and every time it does I am smitten.
“No pretty girl will like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!” (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
My jogger-friend seems to like me. (“Never in a million years!”)

“Here we are yet again”

—“Can I just say one tiny little thing to you?” I asked my pretty jogger friend along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
She already had stopped and turned to smile at me, eyes flashing.
“I thought I’d never see you again in my entire life,” I said.
“Yet here we are again!” she smiled.
“Fourth or fifth time?” I asked.
“I’ve met many pretty ladies along this rail-trail, other trails too. I hoped me and that lady might meet again, and even pursued it. But we never do.”
“Yet here we are,” she said again.
What I didn't say — maybe next time — was “half the reason I hike this rail-trail is hoping I’d meet you again.
The other half is my dog’s ashes are up at that marker. I like to visit; he was a fabulous dog.”
Here we are again readers: bridging the dreaded boy/girl gap. (I'm a guy, and she’s a girl — and pretty too.)
I’m indirectly telling a girl I really like meeting her, plus I’m also indirectly telling her she’s pretty. It isn’t lust. It’s just talk.
The first time we met a few months ago, same rail-trail, with her jogging; I struck up a conversation as she approached, and she was thrilled.
“A guy wants to talk with me, instead of take me home as a trophy.
I hope we meet again,” she said.
I hoped we might too, but “that never happens.”
Yet “here we are again!”

• Notice my use of “one tiny little thing” and asking permission. Tricks of the trade, readers. Just diving into a topic with a lady never works. And they’ll listen to a “tiny little” topic. I’m giving her permission to say no. Push yourself on a lady, and she’ll walk away.

Lawd-a-mighty!

—Yrs Trly is navigating his so-called “wussy-cart” through the aisles at his supermarket.
I see an attractive lady ahead, 90-100 pounds or so, who looked familiar, so I turned toward her.
Our eyes met a second, we didn’t say anything, then we continued shopping.
I met her a second time: “The reason I keep looking at you is you look like someone I used to see up at the YMCA,” I said.
“I haven’t gone there since the pandemic began,” she said.
“Maybe,” I thought to myself. We continued shopping.
I saw her a third time, so I turned toward her.
“I used to work out in the Exercise-Gym,” I said.
“I used to do the ellipticals,” she said.
“So you are who I thought you might be,” I said. “Glad I said something.
I had to switch to the pool,” I said. “My balance is terrible.”
“So is mine,” she said. “I don’t like getting old.”
“I don’t like it either!” I exclaimed.
Her eyes said 50+ or so — although who knows? My lifeguard friend at that YMCA is 65 years old. She doesn’t look that old on her lifeguard stand.
We departed after a minute or so, but then we crossed paths a fourth time.
This time it was her talking first: “they’re always changing things in this store,” she said.
“And this was the store I knew,” I said.
She gently caressed my forearm.
Lawd-a-mighty! She’s at ease with me. A girl I always wanted to talk to, but who seemed self-absorbed and outta reach!
“No girl will have anything to do with you, Bobby! Your heart is full of lust!
EVIL and disgusting I tell ya!”
What a pleasant surprise! A female is comfortable with me. (“Impossible!”)
She liked that I recognized her, and told her so.
Maybe someday we’ll meet again, and enjoy each other’s company.
Those Bible-beaters who marked-me-for-life rotate wildly in their coffins; 14,000 rpm, enough to power FL south of Orlando.

• A “wussy-cart” is one of those small shopping carts about one-third the size of the average grocery-cart, which is as big as a Buick. So named by my brother in northern DE when they first came into use maybe 20 years ago.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 7-8,000 (if it gets there).