I’m sort of on the prowl. At the grocery store. The soccer fields. McDonald’s. Even the DMV.
I can’t help myself. Sometimes when I see a woman, I just know she’s the one. I’ll size her up – see what her clothing and accessories say about her. If she appears smart, or technically savvy, or maybe even a bit lonely.
I always check that ring finger.
If she wears a ring, I’m more likely to approach her. I’m not proud of this, but I’ve learned that a wedding ring actually enhances our relationship.
I alway look for that specific quality. She either has it, or she doesn’t. It’s tough to explain. But if she has it, I want to share myself with her. You know, the part of me that makes its appearance about this time every week. I want to expose it. Hear what she thinks of it. Elicit her admiration, maybe.
I want her to know me.
Some might call me charming. Or an opportunist. I prefer to think that I have exceptional social skills and a little something (okay, a BIG something) that keeps the ladies coming back for more. Something provocative, even.
That something? My blog.
I want the page hits. And the comments. I love the comments.
I believe in my blog. It’s informative, and edgy. Well, maybe not, but it means a great deal to me, helping me grow not only as a writer, but to understand myself as a father and as a man.
I was inexperienced at first, even a little awkward. I needed to “make things more personal” and “get naked with my emotions.
Back to moms….
I had a few choices during a fire alarm once at the DMV. Chatted it up with the nice-smelling girl named Kristen ahead of me. Pretty. Mid 20’s, jeans and boots. Friendly. She just didn’t have it, though. That look of joy with a twinge of exhaustion that tells a guy he’s in the presence of something as heroic (and kinda hot, really) as a mom.
Nothing to see here … busy businessman … quiet young guy who looks like he’s going to be in trouble for being late to work … two cheerleaders dolled up for spirit day.
Wait. Under that tree. Two o’clock. Looks like a pair of mommies, Houston.
I run my fingers through my hair. Straighten my clothes. Make my approach.
Me: (jokingly) Come here often?
Mom 1: Once a year.
Me: So … which one of you pulled the fire alarm? And … are you moms?
The direct approach. Women appreciate that. Laughter ensues.
What gave it away? They’re not wearing mom jeans or carrying a diaper bag. One’s in scrubs. The other, toting a huge coffee. Both smile. One tells me the details of her son’s recent tongue-bite injury.
They have that quality. They just do. They’re snapping pictures of the fire truck. Total Facebook-update material. (It’s lucky truck 13, by the way.)
I mention my blog. One has her phone out in an instant, to check it out.
“Ha!” she says. “This guy’s writing about the bad words his daughter knows!”
Got you right where I want you, mama.
Another notch in my belt.
I mean, hit on my page.
I hope she’ll share me.
With a friend.