Tuesday the “Temperature-Ladies”

—Except this week it was yesterday, Thursday April 8th; usually my physical-therapy appointment is Tuesday.
I was taken into the Physical-Therapy lobby to schedule additional appointments. My scheduler would be *****.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this,” I said to her. “I probably shouldn’t.
****** is very pretty, but you (*****) have the eyes.
Regrettably I’m an eye-man. Men tell me I have it all wrong, but eyes are what attract me.
Your husband gets to see them eyes all the time. Me only once a week, if I’m lucky.
’The eyes are the window to the soul’,” I said.
“I've heard that too,” ***** said.
I covered my eyes. “I can’t look your way,” I told her. “It’s your eyes — WOW!”
Telling her that was entirely off-the-wall, but somebody’s gotta do it.
I bet she goes home with that ringing in her pretty head. I hope so, although my critics would tell me otherwise.
“My husband says I have ‘evil eyes’,” she said.
“Show me!” I shouted. “I wanna see yer evil eyes.”
She couldn’t do it. Of course not; she wasn’t mad at me. Her eyes sparkled instead; again WOW!
And they were brown; usually it’s blue eyes that get my attention.
No matter, her eyes were gorgeous, and our eye-contact was phenomenal.
“No pretty lady will look at you, Bobby! You are EVIL!”
She's not that pretty; ****** is prettier.
But oh them eyes!

• The “Temperature-Ladies” are two Thompson-Hospital employees who sit in the Physical-Therapy lobby per COVID-19. ****** takes your temperature with one of them infrared sensor-guns. Sometimes the other “Temperature-Lady” is *****. She peppers you with questions.

Say it! Tell her!

—“I try to come here without bothering you,” I said to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool…..
But it seems every week something bubbles up.
Yesterday I went to my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls. One of my lady friends runs that pharmacy.
When she saw it was me, she turned and smiled at me, then said ‘hello, how are you?’
True to form, I locked up, just like I do with you. I couldn’t say ‘fine, how are you?’
You even give me the words.
So later I thought why can I never say ‘fine, how are you?’
I began to think it dishonest. I hardly can walk, and my balance is dreadful. To say I’m ‘fine’ would be lying.
And I’m no good at lying.”
My friend laughed.
“It’s not lying,” she said. “Lying implies evil intent; and there isn’t any. You’re not being devious.”
“To me a more truthful answer would be ‘I ain’t dead yet!’”
My friend laughed again.
So what do I do to honestly tell someone I’m happy to see ‘em?
“There’s your answer,” I told my friend.” I can’t say ‘fine, how are you,’ but I can say ‘happy to see ya.’ And I am of course.”
Class finished, I walked through the pool to its edge. My lifeguard friend was going off-duty, but she was walking past poolside.
“Before you leave,” I interrupted; “15–16 consecutive weeks so far, and I like it!”
My friend smiled.
Go ahead! Say it! Make her smile!
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt learns the absolute joy of interacting with women, even pretty ones.
My friend hasn’t smacked me yet, nor sent me packing.

• I do aquatic balance training in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, currently one class per week — 45 minutes — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• I am a graduate of the infamous Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby at age 5 I was convinced that “No pretty lady will ever associate with you!” My Bible-beating parents heartily agreed.

A few months ago I was scared of *****

—“I was hoping you’d be here today,” I said to pretty *****, as she sprung from her workstation deep inside her pharmacy.
That’s telling her I was thrilled to see her, which makes her thrilled I'm thrilled to see her.
“Hi Bob,” she chirped, as she walked toward me.
“Goodie! We can talk!”
I’m not used to this, readers. “No pretty lady will be happy to see you!” But ***** is happy to see me.
“I realized last night when I first met you at Rite-Aid across the street I never once saw you smile.”
Notice my use of the word “you.” That alone is a major step forward. I’m no longer avoiding *****.
“Over here I see you smile, and it makes me extremely happy. Smiling-***** is the person I prefer.”
BAM! I just told her I liked what I saw — and that was a real “like,” not Facebook.
“You may have something for me,” I said. “But maybe not. The dentist has to call back.”
“When’s your dental appointment?” ***** asked.
“Not until next month,” I said. “I don’t need it right away,”
“That prescription is secondary. What I really came here for,” I said; “was to see you smile.”
I didn’t tell her that, but that was what was happening. A smiling female is gorgeous.
“You can’t see if I’m smiling,” ***** exclaimed. “We’re all wearing these masks!”
“Your eyes tell me,” I said. They were sparkling.
BAM! Did it again.
“You’re much happier here. I see it, and I like it.”
By now we were really striking sparks. It adds up. I make her happy, which makes me happy, which makes her happier still, which makes me happier yet.
“Not long ago I was scared of pretty *****,” I thought to myself as I motored home.
“Glad I stopped,” or “glad I said something,” or “happy to see ya!”
Go ahead! Tell ‘em! Don’t be afraid! They’re gonna like hearing you say that.
My reward is always joy, and if I may say so, just striking up a conversation with a pretty girl pleases her immensely — especially devoid of sexual intent.
So what would my wife think if she were still alive?
My wife was fragile. She’d probably feel threatened by my many joyous female encounters.
I probably wouldn’t do it to avoid hurting her feelings.
The fact she’s no longer around allows me to thoroughly enjoy *****.
And tomorrow it might be some other lady-friend.
But ***** and I sure enjoyed each other today. I love seeing her smile like that. Bring it out! Be thrilled to see her.
Before leaving I came back one more time: “I forgot,” I said, pointing to my left arm. “I got the shot,” I told *****; “vaccinated against COVID-19, at long last.”
Pretty ***** was thrilled: “I am so happy for you!” she exclaimed.
“Which vaccine?” she asked.
“Pfizer double-shot,” I said.
“Does your arm hurt or anything?” she asked.
“Nope!” I said; “just like when you gave me the flu shot. Nuthin’!”
As I left I gave her the pearl-of-wisdom: “yer young only once, but can be immature all your life.”
She laughed, and I love seeing her laugh.
“I’m gonna steal that!” she said.

Thinkin’ about pretty *****

—“Too much thinkin’ again,” my critics would shriek.
Thinkin’ about pretty *****, head-honcho of my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls.
***** isn’t gorgeous, but she’s pretty enough to have been intimidating years ago. She’s a tiny little thing with long brunette tresses and pretty blue eyes.
“Gotta say hello to ***** before I leave,” I say.
She bounces up from her workstation toward the counter so we can talk.
And sometime ago she seemed to badmouth her husband.
What did I just do, readers?
I recognized and said something to her, which made her happy. “YIPPEE, that Hughes guy; we can talk!”
***** always seemed angry before, but that was before where she is now. That was when she worked for a big-box pharmacy; trained as a pharmacist, but used as a clerk. She’s much happier now, which I can see; which makes me happier too.
She also loves talking. A typical female I guess. She’s eager to talk, and hesitates going back to work.
Marriage can ruin things. You end up taking your partner for granted.
I’m not married to *****. I might see her once a week — two weeks recently.
She goes home to her husband every night, and probably gets taken for granted. Not as pleasant as being met by some dude thrilled to meet her.
Would I be similarly thrilled if we were married?
I think we feed on each other. The fact I like seeing her makes her like seeing me. It adds up. We end up really enjoying each other’s company.
I have other lady friends I enjoy meeting. They counter “no pretty lady will ever associate with you!”
A few weeks ago I noted to one of them if I was the least bit hesitant or tentative about meeting her, she probably would pick up on that, and not respond favorably. Being scared of her would get misperceived as avoiding her. (Even if I’m scared, I’m avoiding her.)
Not a problem with pretty *****. She always bounces away from her workstation as soon as I show up. I’m no longer scared of pretty *****.
One of my female contacts is rather impressive. We strike sparks occasionally, but she’s semi frightening. I always wonder why she even associates with me.
Would that I be as confident meeting her as I seem to be with *****.

Confidence restored?

—Sunday-Sunday-Sunday! Down to Mighty Weggers to buy groceries for the coming week.
Eyes-eyes-eyes everywhere! We all were wearing masks, so eyes are all we see.
A few were gorgeous, and some sparkled.
After self check-out a store-employee smiled at me. Her eyes told me.
Tell her! Do it! She’ll like you noticing.
“Your eyes are twinkling,” I told her.
I’d made it a point to not say anything in that store to a pretty girl.
But her eyes were irresistible. I had to say something.
“Why thank you,” she smiled.
I used the men’s room before my long drive home.
When I came back out, there was pretty *******, alias “pigtail-girl,” stocking mangoes or something — ******* is a store employee.
I aimed my cart toward *******.
“Just saying hello,” I said to her.
She smiled at me like she always does.
“I no longer think of you as ‘pigtail-girl’,” I said to her. “To me that’s a put down. To me you’re *******.”
She smiled, agreeing “pigtail-girl” was a put down. (People prefer hearing their names.)
Confidence in engaging pretty girls restored?
Somewhat.
“No pretty girl will smile at you!” And ******* is doing it.
She’s a big sturdy girl, but her smile makes her a pretty little thing.

• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.

Critics in repose

—“If I knew you were up here, I’da used self check-out so I could say hello to you.”
I said that to ***** manning my supermarket’s self check-out.
***** is rather plain, and would have no idea who Søren Kierkegaard was. She’s probably late 40s or early 50s.
No matter! I know *****, and ***** knows me: “haven’t seen ya in a while,” she said. “Happy to see ya!”
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt learns the consummate joy of meeting people.
***** doesn’t hafta be equivalent to my extraordinary wife, nor my cousin ****. Just meeting ***** is as pleasant as talking philosophy.
Same with other employees in that store; pretty *******, who always smiles at me, and ******, who says hello before I even notice her.
Plus all the unknown ladies I’ve told have pretty eyes or a gorgeous smile.
Eyes are all we see anymore, and I can’t escape that supermarket without encountering gorgeous eyes.
I haven’t been smacked yet; no huffy walkaways.
“You are cute;” and “you are so sweet!”
“You were shy,” my brother declares.
“Ever consider that Bible-beaters made me shy?” I asked. “No one will talk to you! Just keep to yourself, Bobby!”
Wonderful things to tell a five-year-old little boy; marked-for-life by Bible-beating zealots.
One of my friends, who also happens to be a critic, suddenly walked into the store and noticed ***** and I were talking.
As my friend roared past, she began warning ***** to be careful with me; that I was questionable, mayhap?
***** and I were clearly enjoying each other (GASP!), much to the disbelief of my friend.
It’s the same sorry litany I been hearing all my life.
“***** will not wanna associate with you!” Yet there we were.
Prone to self-loathing, and always thinking poorly of myself, I’m an easy mark for critics.
Parents, siblings, friends — they mean well, but “your problem is……”
Thinking poorly of myself, I am nothing when people start badmouthing me.
What I usually do is in-one-ear-and-out-the-other.
Makes ‘em madder still.
What I end up doing is strike sparks with my lady friends to feel better about myself.
Enter ***** et al. They counter my hoary childhood, whereby “no pretty lady will ever be interested in you!”
***** isn’t that pretty; in fact she isn’t very pretty at all.
But she is female, and “no female will ever be interested in you! You are REPREHENSIBLE!!!!”
Yrs Trly noticed a few weeks ago that returning home after chasing and photographing trains with my brother in Altoony (PA) is no longer as depressing as it once was.
“Back to reality,” I used to say to my wife as we aimed homeward. Even after she died, it remained “back to reality.” (April 17th will be nine years.)
But now “reality” is no longer as depressing as it once was. It’s my lady friends, and ***** is one of them.
Back to ******* with her pretty smile, plus my numerous lifeguard friends at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool, plus my pleasant female contacts on Lehigh Valley RailTrail. Plus all the women I haven't befriended yet but surely will.
Those that determined my fear of women — my parents and that Sunday-School superintendent neighbor — have all faded into my filmy past.
Self-loathing and withered self-confidence remain, but even my critics are fading into my filmy past.
I’ve had so many mind-blowingly successful female encounters, I just can’t believe my critics anymore.
I take risks that earlier seemed inconceivable.
Ladies seem to love the attention: “hooray-hooray, a guy who wants to talk to me, and he’s not hitting on me. He’s not trying to take me home as a trophy. He wants to hear what I say.”
I strike up a conversation with a pretty young girl, and she is thrilled.
The first time I said anything to pretty *******, I fully expected to get smacked, or at least told to get lost.
She’s a big sturdy girl, but she turned and smiled at me — that made her a pretty little thing.
What a reward that was; incentive to try again.
So “hello *****,” among many others; “happy to see ya!”
And perish-the-thought, ***** is happy to see me.
This is all new and pleasing to one raised by Bible-thumping zealots.

“We meet again”

—“Are you who I think you might be?” I asked a pretty young jogger on Lehigh Valley RailTrail this morning as she stopped to talk to me.
“Yes I am!” she smiled.
There you have it readers: the reason I always walk that rail-trail. The same pretty young jogger who smiled at me a couple months ago.
“WOW!” I thought to myself. “I thought I’d never see you again in a million years!”
I didn’t say that, but wish I had.
“Unbelievable,” I shouted. And “happy to see ya!”
We talked a little about trail conditions. ICY here and there, but no YakTrax® or cross-country ski-poles. 70+°.
She jogs with heavily-treaded running shoes.
Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk, punctuated by smile-smile-smile-smility-smile, and twinkling eyes.
“You saw that ice down there,” I said.
What I also shoulda said is “4-6 months ago I struck up a conversation with you and you were thrilled.
A guy (me) who wanted to talk to you, but wasn’t hitting on you.
You could actually talk to a guy without protecting yourself.
I told you I was so glad I struck up a conversation with you; that striking up a conversation always works.
We really struck sparks.
You hoped we’d meet again, and we did.
That months-ago encounter was so successful I came away more likely to strike up a conversation, especially with a pretty girl.
That tells the girl she attracted me enough to say something to her, but not ‘how ‘bout it, honey?’
She likes that; and that’s a real ‘like,’ not a Facebook ‘like.’”
What a JOY to meet that pretty jogger again, and totally unexpected.
The girl who started me striking up so many conversations — befriending so many pretty girls.

“I just met a girl named Maria”

—“Loose as a goose!” I would say to my friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
What I did say was: “I'm no longer who I was three years ago when you first talked to me.”
Yrs Trly is trying to disconnect his landline.
Frontier-Communications, my landline service for eons, doesn’t want me to disconnect. My brother also advises against it, citing safety concerns.
Frontier makes disconnecting very hard, but they’re happy to bill me for a phone I never use.
They expressed concern I hadn’t paid for a while. I set up a bill-pay months ago, but it failed. Frontier just kept adding my new balance-due to previous balances-due.
Finally they wanted me to contact them. So I did, and I got a guy in India whose command of English was marginal.
“All I wanna do is disconnect,” I told him.
I was referred to their “Loyalty-department.”
Around-and-around with that lady I went, but she offered putting my landline “on-vacation,” which gives me the chance to pursue safety concerns.
She gave me the number and extension of her actual phone, so “who should I ask for?” I asked.
“My name is Maria,” she said.
“Thoughts of Leonard Bernstein and ‘Westside story’,” I said.
I started singing to her: “I just met a girl named Maria.”
I could hear her joy on the other end. “This guy is cute,” she’d say.
“Make ‘em laugh!” I told my hairdresser once. “Do that and you can get away with murder!”
This morning I got a voicemail from Maria. I can tell she hopes I’ll call back. Her phone, her extension, and “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Sounds like I made Maria, who I never met, and probably never will, a friend.
Go ahead, be a nut!
“Ya know where I first saw that movie?” I said to my lifeguard-friend later.
“Houghton, my college: Class-of-1966.
My friend is a native of Wellsville, NY, which is south of Houghton. (See footnote below.)
That pretty lifeguard picked up “Maria” immediately, which puts her in league with my wife — to whom I never had to explain anything.

• Back then viewing movies as a Houghton student was supposedly evil and Of-the-Devil. I was supposed to have written parental permission to view movies, but I don’t think I did because I was already perceived to be evil and Of-the-Devil.

“Women are so forgiving”

—“Tell me the rest of your story,” ***** said.
“No, you go swim,” I said to *****, who was gonna swim laps in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, which she lifeguards.
“No, I wanna hear the rest of your story,” ***** said.
“***** wants to hear the rest of your story before she swims her laps?”
So said the little voice in the back of my head, except this time it was the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor who would be glad to tell me “never in a million years will ***** wanna hear the rest of your story!”
That headline is a repeat of a comment an old college friend made when she heard about ***** being so turned off by my “zinger” suggesting she join me for dinner.
Yet ***** reappeared a day-or-two later like my muck-up never occurred.
Another zinger recently, although not as bad as the first. But again I thought ***** and I were done forever.
I only meet ***** one day a week — my aquatic balance class in that swimming-pool.
“Be positive!” I said to myself. “Let ‘er know you’re happy to see her.”
I knocked on the wall-glass separating the pool from the YMCA lobby.
Yrs Trly learned that knocking-trick at Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy lobby, where I knock on the wall-glass from outside.
“Let ‘em know;” my two pretty lady friends, the so-called “temperature-ladies” in the PT lobby per COVID-19.
“Don’t be scared, DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” Don’t avoid her. Let ‘er know! “Happy-to-see-ya” is contagious.
We waved at each other after I knocked. Starting out on the right foot I guess.
“I’m hoping we can talk sometime today,” I said to her poolside. “Not right now, but sometime.”
Yr Fthfl Srvnt has learned a few things about how to deal with women. One being to not hit ‘em with one complete topic in one fell swoop.
***** and I are still strangers: we’re not married; we don’t finish each other’s sentences, or “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Hit the average person with a complete topic and you’ll lose ‘em with the first sentence, which you’re probably gonna hafta repeat.
So give her a chance to cogitate: develop anticipation for what you’re gonna say. “I wonder what’s on his mind; what’s he gonna say to me?”
Finally, after 45 minutes of staggering around, balance class finished, I talked to *****. And she was ready to listen to me. I wasn’t hitting her with a completely unknown topic outta the clear blue sky.
Women love to talk; and we were talking.
I wasn’t verbally staggering all over having to repeat every single phrase, boring poor *****.
And much to the angry dismay of Faire Hilda, ***** wanted me to finish what I said before she swam her laps.

• I do aquatic balance training in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, currently one class per week — 45 minutes — less than usual due to COVID-19.

“You have the eyes!”

—“There she is again!” I said to myself.
“Did you not just get outta my way?” I asked her.
“Other side of the store?” she asked.
“What it is,” I said; “is you have the eyes.”
She blushed. I was telling her she had pretty eyes, and I wasn’t being a sleaze about it.
“You were blessed,” I said. “Many weren’t.
Pretty blue eyes, and smiling at me.
By then our eyes had met and WOW!
If there’s one thing I learned since my wife died it’s how to strike up a conversation.
I turned down that aisle just so I could talk to that lady.
Apparently striking up a conversation hardly ever happens; and ten years ago I wouldna done it.
Striking up a conversation isn’t flirting; unless you wanna say telling a lady she’s pretty is FLIRTING.
She already stepped aside for me once, and I didn’t say anything.
Then there she was again, so I had to tell her. I woulda skipped that aisle, but there she was again.
Apparently I do it right; I haven’t been smacked yet.
“Thank goodness for Wegmans,” I said to myself as I turned out of their parking-lot.
A litany of goof-ups occurred here at home. Worst was leaving a stove-burner on over five hours.
(Haven’t burned the house down yet!)
So my need for bananas from Weggers was a blessing. Escape from utter stupidity.
And best of all was striking sparks with a pretty lady.
No matter what my critics say, she was smiling at me. It wasn’t faked.
“Why thank you,” she whispered.

• I can’t escape that supermarket without striking sparks with some pretty lady.

“Keep in touch”

—“You can do it,” the little voice says.
“Say hello to pretty *****. Don’t be scared.
She’ll probably like it.”
(Pretty ***** being head-honcho of my supermarket pharmacy in Honeoye Falls.)
“Gotta say hello to ***** before I leave,” I said.
(She’s also tiny.)
BOINK! She did it again.
She sprang from her workstation deep inside her pharmacy, and zoomed to the window so we could talk.
I’m not used to this readers. It’s the way I was brought up: “Pretty ***** will not wanna talk to you! You are DESPICABLE!”
“My son really likes that calendar,” she chirped. “He goes to bed with it every night.”
That’s my annual train-calendar. I gave one to *****, and she handed it over to her little boy.
“I had a thought,” I said, as she told me how thrilled her son was with that calendar.
“Uh-oh…….” she said.
“Go ahead, SAY IT,” the little voice says.
“Do I say this, or don’t I?” I think to myself.
HEM-HAW! Hesitation and whispering on my part.
“If your son likes trains so much, maybe we could chase trains sometime.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” she bubbled.
“Are you sure?” I moaned.
“If we do it,” I said: “I want your husband along.”
“Oh don’t worry about him,” ***** said. “He’s so far out of it, he won’t even know the difference.”
At this point I think to myself: “What are you telling me *****? Are you happy? Is your husband as happy-to-see-ya as I am? ‘Happy-to-see-ya’ makes your subject happy-to-see-ya. It’s contagious!”
“‘DREAMIN’!” my critics bellow. “You think too much!”
“I’m not pursuing *****,” I counter.
“We’re just talking, and I discovered women love talking.”
“Well,” I say; “we could visit that railroad-museum in Rush, but it may not be open due to COVID-19.
“Been there many times,” ***** said.
Beyond that, that museum is not 40 mph,” I said. “No 5-10 mph dawdling for this kid! Got to be doin’ at least 40 to be any fun.
The CSX main goes through Rochester, and there is a location where I’ve watched trains there myself.
Trouble is I’m not savvy up there in Rochester. Altoona I know fairly well, but that’s 260 miles away.”
“Keep in touch,” ***** kept saying.

• My brother and I photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars as Christmas presents.