Men...Everywhere You Look... Men

Men in Manhattan.

Goodness.

I am not a look at me person. First of all, I don't have the walk or the hairstyle for it. Nor the attitude. Nor any of the things I see in women in Manhattan or the Village or in New York, period. I'm pretty much a visitor to the passenger car on the train we call life.

Still.

Even I'm noticed in this city. Me. Men hold doors open, and give me their seats on the train, and talk to me on the corner and smile when they walk my way and they whistle and I know it's me because I pointed at myself and they nodded. Sweet bejeebers! And... and...and... they come over and reach things beyond even my arm's reach at the local deli, fetch it down and hand it to me...asking if they can get anything else.

Goodness.

What is in the water here? You actually start to feel delicate and ladylike and almost...frail. I'm thinking of practicing a swoon for summer.

I'm overwhelmed with all this niceness. This manliness. This, this....attention.

I am out of my league.. out of my comfort zone.

At first... I was startled, and blushed. Now, I just blush. I blush when they ask for a number and I say no. I blush when they ask my name, and I say no. I blush alot.

I'm flattered.... I blush....and I'm thinking, New York is full of some very polite, very sweet men. Men in overalls, men in suits, men in jeans... old men, young men, professional men, artist looking sorts, actors (they tell you, so you know)... rich, poor, brokers (they tell you, too)... every sort.

They are nice, kind, and they are immensely interesting to talk to.... and handy as hell when I can't reach that package of Charmin on the top shelf.