I Still Got It

The other day while straightening up from the drinking fountain at the office, a young co-worker asked if I tweeted.

Somewhat embarrassed, I told her I was sorry- at times sounds do emanate from me, but no one has ever used “tweet” as a descriptive adjective.

“No” she said. “Do you Twitter?”

The light began to raise much like a Cleveland morning on a gray February morning. It took a bit for me to decipher the new terminology. I mustered up my most suave Sean Connery/James Bond smile and Marty Feldman eyebrows, patted her paternally on the shoulder, “Well, I am very flattered, but I am very happily married to my Lovely Bride.”

She gave me a forlorn look, and stomped off.

Poor lass, she couldn't help it. She had simply become ensnared in the “Ol’ Hopkins Mystique”.

See, for as long as I can remember, females have been drawn to me. Not in a “whoa-check-out-that-guy” way; it is more of an “Awww-that-poor-guy” way. It is the same response as seeing a baby bird which has fallen from the nest. They take one look at me, and BAM… the whole nurturing, help the poor injured bird thing kicks in.

While I certainly don’t attempt such an image, it is just sort of there. There is something about either my expression or demeanor which causes people, particularly women, to assume I am either in distress or hopelessly lost.

I recall being a youngster shopping at the Super-Duper Market with my Mom. You may remember the type, with a staggering 8 or 10 aisles. She was down the cereal aisle from me, pondering which jar of Kretschmer’s Wheat Germ to purchase. I was transfixed by the image of Tony the Tiger exhorting the greatness of Sugar Frosted Flakes. My hope was Mom would pick up my telepathic message, ditch the Kretschmer’s, and stock up on Frosted Flakes.

However, my concentration was shattered by the strident, nasal voice of a matronly woman saying “Are you lost, little boy?” Little? For crying out loud, I was ten!

I tried to explain that my Mom was right there, I wasn't lost. My words fell upon deaf ears. This do-gooder tried to drag me off to the store manager, so he could blab over the loud speaker to the entire store about the little lost boy who wasn't.

Fortunately, Mom heard the commotion, calmly told the woman I was not lost, although I tend to look that way.

We returned home, I carefully hid the wheat germ behind the spare tire in her Pontiac Tempest, and then sought out a mirror. With two sisters, the search was pretty easy.

It only took about 10 seconds to realize the problem.

See, I used to wear these super thick, pop-bottle bi-focal glasses. It had to do with having been a preemie, getting cataracts, having cataracts removed…blah, blah, blah.

The result was these ridiculously thick things gave me a wide-eyed, deer-in-the- aircraft-landing-lights look. I perpetually had an expression of extreme shock and dismay on my face; even when laughing hilariously at the Pink Panther.

Add to the above effect the fact my physique (until my late teens) would make a stick-figure look beefy. To top it all off, I was about 5” taller than all my peers until about 10^th grade when I quit growing, and they didn't.

All combined, the net effect was that of a baby bird which had tumbled from its nest.

Oh it attracted females alright. Typically the girls who wanted to be nurses, veterinarians, or social workers; they all wanted to help, help me find my parents, help me find my home-room, help me find a book at the library.

It was disgusting. All this attention and not a speck of it like the Man from U.N.C.L.E. got from women. Of course, at 10 I had no idea what to do if that were the case. I guess we would walk hand-in-hand to Connor’s Ice Cream parlor to get a hot dog and chocolate phosphate. For years, I lived with this particular albatross about my neck.

I bugged my parents about getting me these new things called “contact-less lenses”, which could be worn in the eye! What a country! But, they refused, saying my eyes were still growing. Looking in the mirror, I would think “Good grief! They get much bigger, I won’t have a face! I will just be a big pair of eyes walking around!”

However, toward the end of my Senior Year of High School, my dad relented. We went off to my old eye surgeon, Dr. Kazdan, to be fitted for lenses. Finally the big day came; the doctor carefully inserted the lenses in my eyes, I looked in the hand mirror presented to me…. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. “Halloo, Ladies.” My appearance improved dramatically. Adding about 40 pounds didn’t hurt anything either.

Except….my face must have gotten stuck in that “Help! I fell out of my tree!” look.

While not being quite so alien looking, I still found myself being approached by females wanting to help me.

Was I hungry? We could go get dinner, she’d buy.

Was I lost? I could go to their place.

I looked worried, would I like a nice back-rub?

I responded with my ingrained suaveness; 

No, I am not hungry. 

No, I live a couple blocks from here. 

No, I don’t want a back rub. Are you weird or what?

And so it went. No matter where I went; it got to be pretty depressing after awhile.

Which is why I am eternally grateful on the day I asked the future LB to go out, she didn’t act like I was in immediate need of assistance, she simply said “Sure!” ,with a giggle, her blue eyes sparkling.

 I chuckled as I thought of the young lady at the drinking fountain; poor thing.

Say, would anyone have any idea why HR is calling me??