I Guess I'm Just a Shameless Flirt

I have posted before (I think - d*mn it's a nuisance being older) about how Spouse used to be quite jealous of me and my time. Not for a long time now. One look in the mirror is enough to tell me why. Which is why I don't keep a lot of mirrors in this house. That the seals on the windows are broken is a blessing because the glass is all fogged up and I can't even see my reflection there. Sigh. There was a time when I was actually beautiful. Or so I was told.

But I never thought I gave good reason for anyone to be jealous over me. Still, I am fairly simply and silly about such things. Apparently, what I consider to be simple fun is, by others, considered advanced flirting. And the reverse is true, too. More than once (in the past) I would get chided by Spouse for tolerating the blatant come on behavior of some woman as she talked with me. I didn't have a clue to what she was talking about. (Remember who it was who was brilliant and came up with a way to actually play tennis instead of finding something else to do when three guys and three girls got together?)

My problem, I suppose, is that I really like talking with women. Girls, when I was young, but women now. I feel I can discuss a wider range of topics, although there are a few which I find embarrassing. That's something else about women I've noticed: they don't get embarrassed so easily. And when it comes to potty mouth, women are either in first or last place. No middle ground.

I think Death must be a woman. Why? Because I have found myself flirting with Death on more than one occasion. And, just as in any other relationship I have had with a woman, I failed to recognize the ramifications of certain things. This is especially amazing to me when I realize I have an exceptionally high I.Q. and so, supposedly, intelligent. But consider:

I've never been a good swimmer. In fact, I didn't learn to swim until I was nineteen. So what did I do at the age of five or six at the lake up by Grandma's house? I watched the teenagers run down the dock and dive into the water. They were having some sort of contest about who could get out there the furthest. When they finished I decided to have a go. Being intelligent I walked in the water along the dock to the end, just to make sure I could stand up and breathe after landing in the water. I gauged the likely distance I was to get from the dock and walked there. No problem. So, I went back to shore, got onto the dock, and began running as fast as my little legs would move me. When I reached the end my foot pushed off the end in a mighty leap and I went way out there. Far beyond my estimated distance. Right into the drop-off and weed bed.

When I realized I wasn't going to touch bottom, I fought to get back to the surface. I saw the dock, off in the distance, beyond my reach. Maybe I could thrash my way to it? But the weeds wanted to play. They took hold of my legs and kept pulling me down. Twice I made it to the surface, and twice I screamed for help, and twice I was pulled back down beneath the surface. Nobody came to help, despite forty or more people being just thirty yards away. I guess they didn't hear me.

I went down after the second scream and thought in my head, "Please, God, help me." And when I came up the third time my head almost hit the dock. I grabbed hold and held on for a good long time while I got my breath back. When I went to shore and told what had happened - SLAP! Why was I such an idiot?

When I cracked my own head open with a shovel (don't ask) I got yelled at for being stupid, too. And when I fell out of the tree. Why did I climb so high when I knew the branches couldn't hold me? Well, I hadn't known. Not until I put my full weight on the one. Then it was a long drop down. Fortunately, my descent was slowed by other branches in the way.

So when I tried testing Cedar Creek in the spring, when the water was about six feet deeper than normal, and I nearly got swept away, I didn't tell anyone. You see, I was learning. And when Chris, Mark and I were bicycling in January and I got hit by the car, I kept quiet.

That was an experience.

It was night. We were biking home from Cedar, the small town just to the north. Why we thought it was a good idea to bicycle on icy roads I don't know, but that's what we were doing. When the light from the car's head lamps beamed upon us I decided to switch to the other side of the road. I wasn't keen on having a car pass close to me while I was biking on ice. About halfway across I realized the vehicle was moving a lot faster than I had determined. I tried to get back, but I had to go slow. The road was icy.

I heard the car as it slid across the ice, the driver no doubt desperate to bring his vehicle to a stop. I actually thought I was going to make it when - WHUMP! My bicycle went out from under me and I went down like a sack of potatoes. (You ever see a sack of potatoes go down? It isn't pretty.) Still holding onto the bicycle's handle bars I felt my butt slide across the road. My back slid down the side of the car until it reached the rear wheel. Once I felt that I arched my back and tried to keep myself from sliding under. The car appeared to be moving faster than I was.

It seemed like a long time, but I doubt it was. We came to a stop and I got up. Chris said the driver was hunched over his wheel. Finally, he got out to investigate. By then I was on my feet and laughing. Chris and Mark were staring. The guy (who was the local banker) was relieved I was up and walking about. He asked me if I was all right and I asssured him I was. He drove away.

I didn't tell my folks. Both Daddy and Mother were home that night. By some odd coincidence they were invited to Chris's house that night to share an evening with his parents. I had gone home to change clothes (the seat of my jeans was gone) and then went to Chris's house, too. I wasn't there long when I was called down to the kitchen. What was this, my folks asked, about me being hit by a car? Fortunately, we were at a neighbor's house. No beatings allowed at neighbor's houses. Besides, this wasn't something Daddy hit for. Mother, yes. Daddy no. He just looked me in the eyes and asked me if I had learned anything. I said I had. Fortunately, he didn't ask me what I had learned.

What had I learned? There's no such thing as a secret.

I have flirted with Death more times than I can recount. My doctors say that's kind of what I'm doing now. Maybe so. But I thought flirting was supposed to be fun. Flirting with Death is kind of frightening. You know?