Yup. I've thought it over, and I definitely am in love.
All the signs are there. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I'm dodging patrol cars sent out to search for Peeping Toms. ...
And the signs are not merely internal, mind you. Why, I saw the first robin of spring last week, and would you believe he winked at me? And believe me, that's a much better sign than the last time I thought I was in love. Then, I was taking a walk, bellowing Simon and Garfunkel's "Feelin' Groovy," when I came upon a gaggle of Canada geese.
They looked as happy as I felt, so I skipped into their midst ... only to be attacked by five of them. Take it from me, you don't want to be bitten by a goose. They may not be grizzlies, but that doesn't mean their bite's not. If you think you may someday come face-to-beak with one, I recommend you practice your sprinting skills. Geese run deceptively fast.
Do you know how hard it is to look cool when you're being chased by five geese? And these feathered fiends don't even have the decency to conduct their attack in private. Nope. Half of 'em stand around honking like a Type A in a traffic jam for the express purpose of making people look up to see the rest of the geese bite you on the butt. Goosing you, if you will.
But thankfully, none of that has happened this time. Nope. Not only did the robin not attack me, but - get this! - the wind started blowing this week! And if that's not a positive sign of love, I don't know what is.
Because this is the Wind of Change, brother, bringing with it the nurturing rains of romance to irrigate the desiccated fields of love within my hapless heart. And I have two more signs of love on my very body - signs that crop up only when I want to make a good impression: pimples and dandruff.
You never get a second chance to make a first impression, as the slogan goes, and now that I want to make a good one, I HAVE NO CHANCE!! I may not have goose bites on my bottom, but I've got zits that dwarf Mt. Vesuvius. And flakes? Oh good lord! My scalp is taking leave of me like rats from a sinking ship.
Ah, love. It does a body good.
So who is this object of my obsession ... I mean, affection? Well, it's a woman where I work. Finally, a SAFE romance for me. No reason to worry about complications if things go awry. Nope. When this ends, we'll both handle it like the high schoolers we're acting like now. We'll duck down hallways to avoid each other, and when that's not possible, we'll each pretend the other person doesn't exist. Good to know some things I learned in high school still work.
But that's in the future. For now, I can swoon at the thought of her.
What's weird is this woman shares none of the qualities of my previous lovers. She has a job, for example, but not tattoos, genital piercings, prescriptions for anti-psychotics or even a criminal record.
But don't you dare think that makes her one iota less interesting!
What's more, she's not that cute, which means I'm choosing with my heart and not with what usually drives me. She's petite, at least, but her face reminds me of an air mattress sans the air. This is one sunken in face we're talking about. Every time I see her I'm tempted to grab my putter.
Ah, but her personality makes up for it. For someone who lives in the
same small berg where she grew up and attended JuCo, she's positively cosmopolitan. And she's open minded, too. How could she not be? Her desk is decorated with framed sayings and two copies of "Life's Little Instruction Book." She openly proclaims she doesn't hate gays and bi-sexuals, which is fine by me, because I've now given up on men.
So what's the bad side, you ask?
Well, this woman has a child, which means she comes with baggage ... diapers, playpens, expenses ... a husband. But that can be circumvented. It's her Republican politics that makes me think we may not be meant for each other.
But then we talk, and the clouds of doubt are blown away by the Wind of Change. I submit to you the following transcript of a recent conversation I had with her and defy you not to be moved by this smooth and romantic moment.
ME: Hi!
SHE: (doesn't look up) Mmm-hmmmm.
ME: Um, I heard you like gravy.
SHE: (frowns) What?!?
ME: (realizing my nose itches and scratching it) Um, I said I heard you like gravy. They're serving gravy today in the cafeteria.
SHE: (scratching her nose) That's nice.
ME: (realizing she must be indicating I have a HUMONGOUS booger drooping from my nostril like a stalactite on steroids and consequently rubbing my nose) I thought so.
SHE: (wiping furiously at both nostrils like a coke fiend) Sure can't wait.
ME: (panicking for I can't find the damn booger I know must be about to launch forth and put her eye out) Um, see you later!
SHE: (ducking behind her desk to blow her nose, obviously fearful of being slimed by me) Um, yeah.
Now, granted I'm no Don Juan, but I was pretty happy with that. Most of my conversations with women are pretty stilted. I think that next week I may even work up the courage to tell her my name! And if she decides to go out with me, I think I'll show up at her doorstep with an air pump ...
It couldn't hurt, anyway.
Todd Foltz wants to reassure all the fine goths (sorry, dark wave aficionados) in Tampa that he was just kidding about giving up on men.