A Distressing Realization

Day before yesterday I failed to smile at a pretty girl. That disturbs me because it means the Yankees may have finally beat me down.

For the benefit of our non-Southern readers--if readers we still have at all--I should explain that the Southern lady (and Southern men afford all women that status until they prove otherwise) considers it her sacred duty to smile at any man she passes in a public place. This she does simply to spread the joy of her particular loveliness. The Southern man grows up expecting, prepared for, these pleasant little encounters. So imagine my shock when we moved north (and don't kid yourself, Maryland; culturally you are the North) and ladies did not smile when we met. Once when I was out jogging, a lady--another exerciser no less--actually crossed to the other side of the street, where there was no sidewalk. presumably to avoid having to acknowledge my existence. I doubt it was because I exude masculine menace. I have a house full of females. You can smell the estrogen on me, fer cryin' out loud.

Anyways, it appears that I have been away from home long enough to have grown accustomed to not being smiled at by the ladies. In fact, I seem to have gone to the opposite extreme and now try to avoid eye contact, so as not to upset those of the gentler sex forced to share corridors or sidewalks or grocery store aisles with me. So when I met a pretty girl, whom I actually know, by the way, I was not prepared to smile. That depresses me.