To Woo Women

“Language was invented for one reason, boys- to woo women…”

John Keating, Dead Poets Society

Even though I may have announced on a certain face-based social networking platform that I wouldn’t be putting something out on here for another week, the chance to write something for Leap Day shone brilliantly within my brain, and I felt obligated to give it my best shot. I was playing around with wording and psyching myself up to pound out another 1,000 words about how my life has changed since I began this blog all those many months ago, but then I unlocked the front door, and had not even set my left foot within the boundaries of my domicile, when my son, my eight (riding upon the cusp of nine)-year-old son, declared to me in what can only be described as a stage whisper, that he had a date, and that he needed some advice. Aside from the strange parallels his life seems to be taking in concert with those from my more youthful days, I was brought up short by the notion that my son thought that would be a good person to come to for tips on how best to interact with members of the opposite sex. Not wanting to disappoint him too quickly, I delayed the inevitable moment when he would come to realize that all of my romantic encounters have occurred through the mercies of dumb luck, and began to ask him about the particulars of his current predicament, all the while thinking that I was entirely too old for this, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be a grandfather (biologically).

As it turns out, he finally screwed up the courage to ask a classmate of his out on a date. I more impressed by this than anything else, as I wasn’t ever able to actually muster up the courage for face-to-face communications with the fairer sex until I had reached the tender age of somewhere in my mid-twenties. Until then, I managed to subsist on the exasperated interests of ladies who were somehow interested in me, and the age-old classic of a handwritten note, hastily delivered and abandoned (thereby sparing me from immediate rejection). Hell, my first kiss only came about because Heather got in it her head that she fancied me, and took matters upon herself to win me over with a game of Spin The Bottle. I never actually took the lead in the pursuit of romance-based adventures until I had come to realize that I had something within me to offer to a woman (please keep your minds out of the gutter- there simply isn’t enough room down here). By the time I finally met David’s mother, I was on the downward arc of belief in romance, and had decided that if it didn’t actually work out, well, at least I had the internet. I’ve always thought that David was intelligent, but I may have to reconsider, as he chose me (me!) to be his mentor in the whirling rapids of romance. That’s like meeting a homeless drifter in the desert and asking him to captain your imaginary galleon. Just saying.

Of course, it was at this point that Flower decided to call me out on something (which totally wasn’t my fault!), and I was pushed toward a defensive posture, despite the fact I was still reeling from the news that my son possessed exponentially more game than I had ever dreamed of having. It had been my hope that he would inherit my complete and utter inability to interact with women, considering the fact that he is, by far, more handsome than I ever was. Sure, I hit puberty ahead of the curve, but it was my total inability to make an actual, human connection with a woman which kept me from the risks of fatherhood until such time as I had fully developed theories on socioeconomics, and a place (no matter how much of a hovel) of my own. If David is already beginning the process of honing his game, there is a clear and present danger that we will have to find a bigger apartment. Now, don’t get me wrong: he’s only eight, and the manliest thing which he has ever done was belch three-quarters of the alphabet after chugging a can of Ginger Ale. But the fact that he is biologically incapable of poor decisions on a grownup scale, does not mean that he is intellectually incapable of making those mistakes. The last thing he needs is a girlfriend. Especially since he will be at least 34% cooler after he goes to his first concert on the second of May (we are all going to see Apocalyptica, this time with VIP tickets (and let me take the time to mention that I am kind of jealous of my son, that at his very first concert, he gets to meet the band (kids these days))).

Of course, all of this boils down to his final question of the night: “Dad, how did you win Mommy?”

Let that sink in, if you will.

“Dad, how did you win Mommy?”

Let us, for a moment, discard the notion that another person can be “won”, or that his mother chose that particular moment to start another argument with me, laughing openly at the prospect of that won her (though, to be fair, if she won me, that has to literally (literally) be the worst carnival prize ever (ever)). I have made it my mission to undercut my godhood with the Minkey since he was capable of understanding the concept of infallibility. I’m just this guy, you know? I make sure to keep reminding him. How he got it in his head that I am some sort of Casanova is entirely beyond me. Honestly, it might be flattering, if it weren’t so worrying a thought.

His main strategy is to buy her affection with flowers and a teddy bear. I asked him with what funds he hoped to buy these items, and he conceded that he might need some sort of financial aid from either myself or from his mother. But the worst part? The very, absolutely, unpardonably worst part of all of this? He wants to bond with her over a game of Minecraft.

Maybe I don’t have that much to worry about after all.

Nothing at all...
Nothing at all…

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