Smiling all the way!

—“You been talking to *****,” I said to ******, my number-two lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
She’s number-two only because ***** has always been number-one. ***** said hello to me by name years ago, before I struck up a conversation with ******.
That first conversation with ****** was my own doing. I’d got to where I could talk to a pretty lady, and ****** is attractive even though she was 55 or 56 back then. ****** is now 58.
***** is now 65, and was back from vacation in Alaska with her husband.
I asked if she saw anything.
“Birthing moose and antelope,” she said.
(“Meese?” I asked. Nope; that was Edwin Meese III, Attorney General during the Reagan administration.)
I noted how I practiced socializing at my brother’s wedding-celebration south of Boston, such that if ***** asked how I was, I would say: “fine thank you; and how are you?”
Normal people socialize that way, but not this kid. No one taught me how to socialize. I’m the product of overly-judgmental hyper-zealots. —I was “rebellious” and “Of-the-Devil.”
So when ****** said “hi Bob; how are you?
Now you’re supposed to say……”
“Fine thank you,” I said; “and how are you? And it sounds like you been talking to *****.”
“I have!” she said.
Both ***** and ****** seem to have joined to drag me into the real world.
Where normal people, like my numerous lady-friends (WOOPS! “Friends who happen to be female”) don’t automatically deduce me EVIL and disgusting!)
***** stayed with me ever since she first said hello, despite my many foul-ups and faux pas. She’s female (“GASP!”), and rather impressive for her age.
Shortly after ***** said hello to me, when I struck up that conversation with ******, ****** promised to not give up on me despite my total inexperience with women and socializing.
She hasn’t. She’s always happy to see me, and usually says hello first.
Thankfully I never did anything stupid with ******; although once maybe, but I apologized the next time I saw her: (“I don’t want you thinking you’re chopped liver”).
With ***** I thought I lost her with two dreadful mistakes. Poor wording last time.
But I won her back. Unlike my father, ***** doesn’t keep score.
So here we are, much to the angry chagrin of the Bible-thumpers.
Still friends with both ****** and ***** — ladies (“GASP!”)
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”
(Smiling all the way!)

Major triumph

—“How do I say this?” I said to my aquacise-instructor, warning her in advance I might say something hurtful.
(She’s a-burnin’ me up with them eyes; very intense.)
“**** ********* and I were talking about you this morning: how you and I seem to be at loggerheads.
‘Not mad at you,’ you said.
To which I say ‘prove it.’ You’re more curt with me, and more abrupt.”
“Don’t forget,” **** said. “If you’re standoffish with her, she’ll be standoffish with you.
The way she reacts to you is a reflection.”
“Precisely,” I thought to myself. “Score one for ******!”
Not long ago I said the same thing to my lifeguard friend at that swimming pool.
“If I’m the least bit tentative, or apprehensive, or scared, you’ll pick that up as my avoiding you.”
“If I project joy at meeting you, you’ll probably also be happy to meet me.
“We project to each other, so if I’m negatory, I’ll get what I perceive as standoffishness.”
“My entire perception of women is distorted. I told that to ***** once.”
“By your childhood?” that aquacise-instructor said.
“Your mother, and also your father?” which tells me she’d been thinking about it.
“And also my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor whose husband was probably fooling around.
The one who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were scum.
Had my parents come to my defense, that neighbor woulda crashed in flames.
But they heartily AGREED! I was unable to worship my holier-than-thou father, so was therefore rebellious.
That’s a wonderful way to mark a little boy for life.”
“I'm glad you’re learning,” she said.
“Seventy years late!” I exclaimed.
Enter another of my “friends who happen to be female.”
I’ll slightly reword what she once told me:
“Just because a lady cares about you, doesn’t mean she’s interested in you.”
I substituted “cares about” in place of “smiles at.”
I tapped my aquacise-instructor on her arm as I walked out.
That spooked her, but she quickly realized I was expressing my own concern about her.
Score one for **********!
Later I hiked around that swimming-pool to say a few words to my second lifeguard friend.
“I just wanted to tell you about the pitched-battle that occurred in my head when I found that perfect sympathy card.
Here I am in Mighty Weggers, and I find this fabulous sympathy card.
On one side of my head were the forces of EVIL, Satan, represented by you.”
“Oh no ya don’t!” my lifeguard friend wailed.
“Don’t forget,” I told my lifeguard friend. “You were the one who wanted me to buy that card, so to the zealots you were a tool of Satan.
‘If you give that card to *****,’ you told me; ‘you’ll make her very happy.’
On the other side,” I told my friend; “were the sanctimonious, overly judgmental hyper-zealots, the Bible-beaters.
‘If you give that card to *****,’ they’d bellow; ‘she’ll think you’re hitting on her.’”
“She won’t!” My friend exclaimed. “It made her very happy.”
“Thankfully,” I told my friend; “I already cultivated many more female friendships then I ever expected. Including you. So I don’t pay attention to the those hyper-zealots anymore.
So I bought the card, and gave it to *****.”
“And made her very happy,” my friend told me.
“Probably for two reasons,” I said:
“—1) I told her I cared about her, and
—2) I successfully beat back the Bible-thumpers.”
“Exactly,” my second lifeguard friend said.“
Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”
Eye-contact with my second lifeguard friend is zilch.
But that’s okay because she’s my best pool-talker.
Eye-contact with my first lifeguard friend is occasional, and she’s also not an easy smiler. When I get either it’s smashing.
That first lifeguard friend is outta town, and hopefully I’ll regal her with that Satan story. I bet I get a chuckle, and I like getting that chuckle.
That aquacise-instructor is an easy smiler, and heavy with the eye-contact, but she’s also the one I made all the mistakes with.
I sure am glad I bought that card — I really like making ***** happy.
“I admit it’s partly sexual: she’s a girl, and I’m a guy. (“GASP!”)
More important is that as a little boy I was convinced that never in a million years would I make a female happy.
So when I do, it’s immensely thrilling. I love making ***** happy, probably more than I should.
Telling a girl (“GASP!”) I care about her is a major triumph.

Pitched battle

—“One of these days I gotta tell ya about the pitched battle that went on in my head before I bought that sympathy card.”
I would say that to ***** and/or ******, my two lifeguard friends at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
Both are female, and ***** is impressive for age-65.
******, age-58, is my easier friend, and also doesn’t look her age.
****** always smiles at me, and is happy to see me. With ***** I feel like I’m overreaching = too impressive for a lifelong scumbag.
*****’s mother died not long ago, so I wanted to tell ***** I was thinking about her. We seem to be friends.
On one side of my head was Satan, represented by ******, exhorting me to buy the card.
“Your giving that card to ***** will make her happy!”
On other side of my head were the sanctimonious Bible-thumpers of my hoary childhood.
“You give ***** that card, and she’ll think yer hittin’ on her. Evil intent, I tell ya! Yer heart is filled with LUST!”
“Thankfully,” I’d say to *****/******; “I had enough pleasant experiences with women, including you, that I don’t listen to those prudes anymore.”
I bought the card, and I gave it to *****, which made her very happy.
Not only was I telling her I cared about her; she also could celebrate my triumph over the self-righteous zealots.
It seems ***** might have joined ****** in my ongoing struggle against the Bible-thumpers.

Say goodbye to *****

—Pool-time finished, Yrs Trly glanced into the swimming-pool area of Canandaigua’s YMCA before leaving the adjacent locker room.
I look to see if I should say goodbye to any of my lady friends.
SCOTCH THAT! “Friends who happen to be female.” “Lady-friends” sounds too much like “girlfriends.” “Girlfriends” has sexual import. (All we do is talk.)
I admit I prefer females. Designed in I guess, plus long ago I was convinced no female would ever have anything to do with me.
So I am smitten by ladies, although ladies seem friendlier.
Men might start hitting me with that macho crap. Ladies wanna talk! The simple exchange of mindless chatter.
By doing so we denote we attract each other.
“Goodie!” I said to myself. “That looks like *****. She knows me, and I know her. Plus earlier she waved excitedly at me: the ‘happy to see ya’ wave.
Ergo, “we can talk.”
So I ambled slowly around the pool, fully dressed: “CALL SECURITY!”
But it’s *****, and she knows me.
Locker room to lifeguard-stand is probably at least 50 yards — I coulda just left, but I had a hunch ***** would like me saying goodbye to her.
I thought she might like knowing I like her.
“Hi Bob,” she cooed.
Our eyes met, and she smiled at me.
There you have it readers: “No pretty ***** will smile at you!” And ***** just did!
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to her; “but I had to make sure you were who I thought you might be.”
“I didn’t understand a word you said,” ***** said. We were wearing masks.
I repeated what I said, except “I had to make sure you weren’t ******. You two look so much alike.
I make ****** nervous. With her I’m a lonely hot-to-trot widower, eager to FLIRT with every pretty young girl that comes along.
I have a hunch ****** has been hit on, and I wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“I'll hafta talk to her,” ***** would say.
“Don't try too hard,” I’d say. “******’s feeling at ease with me has to be her doing. I ain’t pushin’ her!”
We talked a little, then “have a pleasant weekend!” as I walked away.
That was *****. We talk, and I love that we do.
I coulda just walked out without meeting her. But her pretty eyes flash, and she smiles at me. I can’t resist: this is so contrary to how I was raised.
No way am I leavin’ that pool without saying goodbye to “friends who happen to be ladies.”
And I bet ***** is happy a dude likes her as a person, and will make the effort to tell her so.

I ain’t switchin’!

—Canandaigua’s YMCA has at least three entrances, maybe four.
My use of that YMCA goes back to before my wife died, and that was nine years ago.
Back then was before that YMCA expanded into a large abandoned Post-Office facility next-door.
So my wife and I probably used what used to be the main entrance then, the one facing out front.
That entrance was since converted into a semi-locked fire-exit.
Out back is the rear entrance. It’s locked but would unlock with your YMCA key-tag.
There also is parking back there, so I switched to out back. When or how I don’t remember.
Then I was advised to switch to aquatic balance-training in that YMCA’s swimming-pool.
I previously worked out in their exercise-gym — their so-called “Wellness-Center.” It has exercise machines and weight training.
With expansion into that abandoned Post-Office facility, that YMCA gained a new main entrance and lobby. It’s adjacent to a new swimming-pool.
A previous swimming-pool was retired and abandoned. The new pool is in a different location.
That new main entrance is on a side-street. It has a giant staircase I call “Jacob’s-Ladder.”
I used to be able to climb that staircase two steps at a time, but no longer. I still can climb it one step at a time. I’m not using the adjacent geezer-ramp yet.
With COVID-19, the rear entrance was decommissioned. In fact the entire YMCA was closed for months.
It reopened in August (I think), but per COVID-19 you hafta sign-up in advance to attend, then members check in with a temperature-check in the lobby.
The rear entrance could only be used if you called the lobby on your phone. Someone would come and let you in.
Use of that YMCA is way down. Prior to COVID-19 we averaged 20-25 per class in aquatic balance-training.
Now we’re down to three or four for one 45-minute class per week. It used to be two classes per week.
As more people get vaccinated against COVID-19, protocols at that YMCA are being eased. I still sign up for that swimming-pool in advance.
That YMCA will go back to key-tag checkin, although they’ll still wanna take your temperature.
Supposedly key-tag checkin will enable YMCA members to go back to using that back door. Which means I could go back to using that rear parking-lot and rear door.
But I don’t know that I wanna.
I’ve gotten used to using “Jacob’s-Ladder,” and parking my car out front.
By doing so I see if my lifeguard friend’s car is in the parking-lot. If it is:“GOODIE! She’s here, and I LIKE IT! We can talk!”
70 years late I’m talking to a female. (“Gasp!) And not only that, she’s an attractive female. (“Double-gasp!”)
“No pretty female will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are disgusting and Of-the-Devil!”
I ain’t switchin’!

• The story of Jacob’s Ladder refers to the vivid, prophetic dream in which Jacob sees a ladder stretching from Heaven to earth. The dream not only represented the connection between God and man; it also affirmed Jacob as the father of God’s chosen people, the Israelites. (Genesis 28:12, King James Version).
• My wife told me she once heard a Bible-beater tell her: “If the King James Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me!”

Talking with women is such fun!

—I think my lifeguard-friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool liked hearing I always look for her car when I pull into the parking lot.
If her car is there, as it has been for weeks: “YIPPEE, she’s here!”
That means “YIPPEE, we can talk!”
That means I’m talking with a female, a girl. (“Gasp!”)
And I think she enjoys talking with me. (“Impossible!”)
I probably enjoy talking with her more than I should.
Together we counter “No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
A legacy of my childhood; 70+ years marked-for-life.
If my parents had come to my defense, that angry Bible-beater woulda crashed in flames.
But my parents were Bible-beaters too. I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father, so I was “rebellious.”
So my experience with women is nil.
I think my lifeguard friend may be cutting me slack. I had a long-ago deal with another lifeguard friend that she not give up on me. She hasn’t.
On the other hand I noticed if I strike up a conversation, add respect and decorum, ladies like it. (“Never in a million years!”)
And I like that they like that.
My lifeguard friend isn’t the only one.
If I patronize my pharmacy, my lady friend there, head-honcho of that pharmacy, hops from her workstation so we can talk.
“We could talk forever,” she tells me. She loves talking with me, and I love talking with her.
The other day my lifeguard friend’s Subaru wasn’t in the parking lot.
“I got a new car,” she told me.
She didn’t walk away, or tell me to get lost. She showed me her new car so I could look for it next time.
Little-by-little The Keed learns how to engage and please women, casting off the albatross I carried 70+ years.
Talking with women is such fun!

• Lotta red text here. Most is my critics a-bellowing.

She waved

—The other day my nurse-practitioner neurologist, who I visit every six months pursuant to my ongoing struggle with dreadful balance……
Suggested I discontinue aquatic balance-training in favor of my dry-land physical-therapy.
I currently do both.
“And walk away from my lady-friends at that swimming-pool?” I screamed. “No way José!”
At this point my nurse-practitioner neurologist, a girl, rendered her wisened chuckle.
“A sex-crazed geezer, eh?”
Sex at my age? “What you been smokin’ boy?”
My interest in lady-friends is hardly driven by sex. Maybe somewhat — they are women after all.
To me it’s reversing my childhood. Convinced at an early age no pretty lady would ever have anything to do with me.
That would be my sanctimonious neighbor Sunday-School superintendent, whose dashing husband was probably fooling around.
My parents, Bible-beaters like that Sunday-School superintendent, heartily agreed. I already was in deepest doo-doo for not being able to worship my holier-than-thou father — “rebellious I tell ya!”
So yesterday (Friday, May 7th) I again visited that swimming pool — at Canandaigua’s YMCA.
Not my organized aquatic balance-training class, but on-my-own.
Plus meet my lady-friends. My favorite lifeguard friend at that pool is not there on Fridays. But others might be.
Just sloshing around in that pool is beneficial.
My only “lady-friend” was *****, a new lifeguard, and she’s only a “maybe.”
***** is young and cute. She seemed to want me to say hello the other day.
So I tried a little harder the next time I saw her: let her know I like her.
My all-knowing brother in Massachusetts loudly declares pretty girls are a dime-a-dozen.
Thank goodness they are. If ***** bombs, I’ll try someone else. I usually succeed.
Let ***** conclude I’m not lusting after her. Talking yes, sex no!
In other words, let ***** attain “at ease” with me.
No pushiness on my part.
If I can’t have her feel comfortable, try someone else!
So last time I avoided *****, thinking I would only respond if she wanted me to.
NOTHING!
Yesterday she seemed more at ease.
There she was striding poolside to go on duty, so I kept looking to see if it was *****. Her name was on the bulletin board, and I was in the pool.
She noticed I was looking at her, so she waved.
Hooray-hooray! More comfortable mayhap? I hope so!
If ***** bombs, try someone else!
Lady-friends are a dime-a-dozen; I make lady-friends like crazy!
Women love talking, and I encourage it.
I learned how to get ‘em started: strike up a conversation with a lady, and off-we-go!
“The only way you can reverse your childhood,” my bereavement-counselor says; “is to make as many lady-friends as you can.”
That bereavement-counselor seems to be the only one who understands my attraction to lady-friends.

• Even at age 77, overweight, flaccid, and way over the hill (although I don't remember a hill), I have lady-friends galore, probably because I encourage them to talk with me.

Here she comes again

—“It looks like she’s coming my way again,” I thought to myself at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
I was sitting on a bench poolside, early for my aquatic balance-training class.
“I hope so; it looks like she is.” She stopped, not right next to me, but close-enough. And she coulda gone elsewhere.
That would be *****, my pretty lifeguard friend, who my brother in Massachusetts now badmouths as a “looker;” since I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity to describe ***** a “looker” for age-65.
“FLIRT” is another derogatory term my brother uses. My numerous lady friends are all “FLIRTS.”
“I don't know if you’re interested or not,” I said to *****; “but I decided last night all my dealings with women are severely distorted by my childhood.”
“We know all about it BobbaLew,” she said. “All of us in some way were affected negatively by our childhoods.”
“Tell me more,” I said. “Like how your father always said you were a handful to raise.”
“He always said that,” ***** said. “And I got tired of it.”
“Like that time I met your parents in my supermarket.
Your mother I recognized, since I always partnered with her in our aquatic balance-training class.
‘Well you can have her!’ your father snapped.”
“They always got along pretty good,” ***** said.
“Crackpots!” I exclaimed.
“During childhood,” I said; “I was convinced at age-5 no girl would ever have anything to do with me.
But now so many do, and it’s just talking. Strike up a conversation with a girl, devoid of hitting on ‘em, and they won’t leave. Especially the pretty ones.
Women love to talk, and I like talking with women.
I’m the product of overly-judgmental, hyper-religious Bible-beaters,” I told her.
(I won’t repeat her response — taste and decorum.)
***** is not the most talkative person in the world, but here she comes.
Often it’s me walking toward her, but just as often it’s her walking toward me.
Here I am poolside quietly waiting for my aquatic balance-training class to begin, and here comes *****!
It looks like she wants to talk — with me, the lifelong scumbag.
(“DREAMIN’!”)
How we ever got there after all the flubs I made with her I’ll never know.
But I sure like talking with *****.
I hope my liking that isn’t too distorted.

• Per Matthew 7-1 of the King James Version, Jesus said “Judge not, that ye be not judged…..” My Bible-beating parents woulda loudly adjudged me “rebellious” for even bringing that to their attention.
• As my wife told me: she once heard a Bible-beater exclaim “if the King James Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.”

All to myself

—“How do I tell you this without being perceived a ‘lonely hot-to-trot widower;’ a ‘loathsome lothario’?”
I said that to my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
I still think highly of her; she leads my aquatic balance-training class.
She was the first pretty lady to smile at me in my entire life — my wife is another story.
I took her smiling at me ALL WRONG; a product of my early childhood.
“No pretty lady will smile at you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
Then “just because a lady smiles at you, doesn’t mean she’s interested in you.”
(That last quote is another lady friend.)
That aquacise-instructor, married like most of my lady friends, finally gave me her borders.
Most of my other lady friends gave me their borders early. “I like you liking me; it makes me feel attractive; but be careful!”
For years I never knew what was going on with my aquacise-instructor. Incidents occurred, misread per my childhood, that egged me on.
My childhood leads me into misreading any contact I have with women — the misperception being the lady is interested in me.
I got past that, but well after that aquacise-instructor first smiled at me.
Unfortunately she was an early female contact, which makes her my first mistake. (Thank you Hilda!)
Which regrettably means I learn all this at that aquacise-instructor’s expense.
So how do I say anything to her without being misperceived?
Fortunately, she still seems to want me to like her. She’s not leaving me behind.
And this was especially fortunate considering what I wanted to tell her was I really enjoyed having her all to myself the other day.
Previous to the pandemic we were averaging 20-25 for the aquatic balance-training class.
Now we’re down to 3-5, and only one class per week instead of two.
And last week no one showed up except me, which meant I could have that aquacise-instructor all to myself.
“Hooray-hooray! At long last you get to see up close and personal what I been fighting the past couple years. Neuropathy which just gets worse and worse and worse and worse.”
What I didn’t say was how much I enjoyed going face-to-face with a cutie I still like. (Taste and decorum readers; I didn’t wanna get misperceived, i.e. I didn’t wanna lose her.)
Probably half of what I said didn’t even get comprehended, but it looked like I didn’t lose her.
When I left later she waved frantically at me from a distance.
Under my previous way of thinking, that would indicate her being interested in me.
Not any more! What a shame I had to get here at her expense.
Never again am I gonna think some lady is interested in me.

• Hilda Walton (“Hilda”) was my hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor when I was a child. She convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. My Bible-thumping parents heartily agreed, since I was already rebellious for not being able to worship my holier-than-thou father.