“I can gut a fish.” Yes, I actually said that during a conversation with a man who, quite likely could be the next Mr. ANDSHELAUGHS.
Wait, nope, not likely. Not after that conversation bomb.
You see, I, Ms.HasAnOpinionAboutEverything, have a flaw. Yes. Yes. I know, you’re stunned my darlings aren’t you? Don’t fret or shed any tears, it’s time you heard the truth.
The her-truth, and nothing but the truth. I, Ms.HasAnOpinionAboutEverything , become a jabbering twit when it comes to talking to any man I find attractive. Mind you, their breed is rare, and encounters are few.
There is only one man from my past who still leaves me babbling like a large child. I think that’s why we stay in touch. Because, as humiliating it can be to blush, it’s nice for a gal to be in the presence of a man who naturally emanates strength and confidence.
The caveat about my small disability is that I only get tongue-tied when we’re talking about personal things, things that are frivolous, you know, the stuff of small talk and polite conversation. Like fishing. I was raised as a child being told that civilized people did not talk about politics or religion at the dinner table or during more professional functions.
But I’m good at politics and religion, like really good. Or philosophy, or ethics, or science, or economics, current events and culture.
Bring me a drop dead gorgeous portion of man-steak and I can debate away, not even noticing that perhaps he had Mr.Next potential. That’s how much I enjoy a good conversation.
Today, surrounded by a group of colleagues who know I have a professional crush on this Mr.Next man, I was tongue-tied. Somehow we got talking about the spawning fish in the river that snaked through the landscape behind said Mr. Next who is sorta cute in that geeky way that I find so hard to resist.
In a much needed effort to help me out, my work-mate suggested that I knew a thing or two about fishing and I had suggested that perhaps because the fish were spawning, it was not legal to fish for them at this time of year.
She handed me a platter abundant with conversation potential, and I literally passed it along, becoming my anorexic-conversational alter-ego. Merde.
Although I have strong opinions about the Canadian blue-blood political heir Justin Trudeau throwing his hat into the federal leadership ring, the over use of the term “red-line” in Canadian/Israeli/Iranian relations, and how 44 transferred TTC custodial jobs translate to 43 million dollars in savings, I could not have had an intelligent conversation with that man today.
Perhaps in the right setting, relaxed with no prying eyes it would be different. It’s so much easier to chit-chat with men I could care less about. You know the kind of man I’m talking about ladies. The kind you rid from my life with a few forced tears and the wave of your hand.
It’s also easy for me to speak to men who engage me in intelligent conversation so I forget about their yummy bodies and concentrate instead on the very heated exchange of ideas.
Ah, alas, speaking in front of a hundred people leaves me energized,but under the smirking scrutiny of my gal-pals, speaking to that rare and elusive breed of men they know I like, or may potentially like, I’m left tongue-tied. Yes, the jabbering she-twit.