: speaking of walking :


If I’m lucky, my next trip will be down the aisle.

Although I’ve spent most of the spring and summer walking around the city I didn’t pick up any weird vibes. Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary, just months of treading familiar, well-traveled ground. The weather changed sometimes. My clothes changed from day-to-day. An odd, fishy smell occasionally. Otherwise, no, it’s been the same old dull routine.

But in the last few days I’ve noticed a strange shift; romance is in the air. Isn’t that odd? According to Tennyson, springtime is when a young man’s fancy turns to love. Not late in the summer. Well, keep in mind, this is Illinois, we aren’t terribly au courant. Your spring is our midwinter, so maybe we’re ahead of schedule. A little.

Twice this week I’ve been propositioned. Once by an old dude, once by a much younger dude. The old guy had a great pick-up line: ‘let me have one of your cigarettes.’ I was holding a kleenex. Undeterred, he asked why he’d never seen me around and was I interested in going for a drink? Uh, no. The young guy was pushing a bike with flat tires. He winked, made a lewd crack about getting inflated, and I crossed the street.

I’m old. I’m built like a 12-year old boy. I am not a catch. So what in the world is going on? Well, there are only two possible conclusions to draw: either I look like a total pushover or, more likely, I’m a magnet for crazy. Boys and girls, I hear wedding bells.

copyright © 2017 the whirly girl

24 thoughts on “: speaking of walking :

  1. Maybe those guys have heard your voice. You sound great in these electronic pages. And if you’re ever over this side of the pond I know one chap, old and about the height of a twelve year old, who would be glad to buy you a drink. But don’t book the church yet … I’m spoken for. ;-)

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      1. A girl has to dream! Though may I suggest including an attractive ice cream seller in place of your two existing dreamboats in this dream..not that I am saying these two are not prime specimens of man of course.

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