Friday, March 02, 2007
"Ah, sweet pity, where would my love life have been without it?" ---Homer Simpson.
Sometimes I sits. And sometimes I sits and thinks. And other times I sits and thinks about things of whimsy. This morning, as I drove to work, my mind wandered and I asked myself: "Self, when did you first tell a woman or girl, that you loved her?" The question surprised me, but not my dog Bernie. He expects such nonsense from me.
"Do you remember the days when you would ask a friend to ask one of her friends if there was the possibility that if you approached her that perhaps she would be receptive to your overtures?" I asked myself, thinking of middle school. My mouth curled into a broad smile.
"But what about the first real admission of love? Working up the courage to overcome that sinking sense that you were closing the door on a trap?"
Bernie looked out the window.
I remembered a story David Steinberg used to tell. He would relate how an older friend, a burly individual whose body hair took on a life of its own, would give advice about romance.
"Whatever you do," the friend related, "don't ever tell a girl you love her. Don't ever do that. Never. You'll be sunk without a way out."
And in the story Steinberg ends up at a school dance, paired with a Shirley Pearlowitz, a teenager with breasts the size of Ethiopia. And as the music played and they snuggled closer to one another, Shirley leaned forward and whispered in his ear: "My parents are out of town.....and I'm a nymphomanic."
To which Steinberg stated he replied: "Shirley, I love you."
Me? I don't remember. I recall holding that word in awe. I remember a young girl once saying she loved me and my non response becoming an awkward silence. But I don't recall my first expression of love, although I had experienced many sleepless nights in love unrequited. I became an expert at it.
"I'm such a good lover because I practice a lot on my own." --- Woody Allen