All you women are screwed-up.

"What's with these women?  Why don't they get it?"

Why do they let us just grow old and die without meeting any of them?  Why don't they understand they have to chase after us.  Wrestle us to the ground.  Tell us "I want you!"  Over and over again, until we finally screw up the self-esteem and courage to ask them for a date.

This is for all you screwed-up women (like Roxane):
If you want him, TELL HIM!

 

Frank Baldassare

I met him at our group back in NYC (q.v. Remembering Ed Mysak).  I told him how rejected I felt by fluent women and how much of my interest in the stuttering self-help movement was in the hope of finding a mate who stuttered and would understand and accept me.  But the sex ratio is so depressing.  Women who stutter are so rare.  So Frank gave me the name and phone number of a nurse he knew.  I finally screwed up the courage to call her.  With sub-zero self-esteem.  And somehow interpreted (OK, maybe mis-interpreted) from our phone conversation that she'd never be interested in meeting me.  Since she didn't seem to "show an interest", I somehow felt it improper for me to ask her if it was OK to meet her (I had been through that one before and it was extremely painful to me).  Thinking that "showing an interest" would be improper.  So I never asked to meet her.  Though I sorely wished to.  But there was no one around to encourage me to call her back.  A few years later, after having acquired a little self-esteem, I did.  But it was too late.  "You never called me back.." she pined.   What!?   *She* never called *me* back!  Maybe I forgot to give her my phone number.  OK, I could have forgotten that one.  I thought I had.  I'd still like to meet her.  But have forgotten her name.  It was half a lifetime ago.  Only Frank would know (assuming he's still with us).  A name and phone number from an older and wiser friend like Frank who knew what I needed was precious.  I could easily have missed out on another Nancy (who I also missed out on).  How I wished Frank had called me back to find out what had happened.  Thanks for trying anyway, Frank.

There's this schmaltzy bubble-gum rock song I remember from High School with the words "if you love him, tell him!"

I remember as a freshman in High School how we were all shown Cyrano de Bergerac (the 1950 Josť Ferrer film classic).  One of the most intelligent things they did (I think so in hindsight anyway) at that High School.

You could grow old and die without meeting any of them.  All you women are screwed-up anyway.  Like Roxane.  Discovering at the end as Cyrano was dying in her arms that it was he who had been writing her all those letters over the years and with whom she was in love with.  I'd have told her, with my last dying breath: "Thanks a lot Roxane".

All you women are screwed-up.

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