The Boy Whisperer

I am a boy whisperer. That's right, I take on young men, the worst of the relationship worst, some nearly on the verge of being put out of their misery. I find them bucking others in their stables, refusing to remember birthdays and telling females how they really look in jeans, and then I gently mold them into men.

And boy do they blossom. They gain strength, beginning to send Hallmarks to their mothers on special occasions and turning off SportsCenter while eating dinner. They return phone calls in a matter of hours rather than days and discover the wonder of dry cleaning. And then they use their once shaky legs to walk swiftly down the aisle with the next woman they date.

One such young buck (we'll just call him Cletus to expose the innocent) contacted me recently after passing my car on the highway early one morning.(Remember this?) Congratulations on your promotion. So glad you found a new pad you like so much. I hope you are doing well. Ah yes. Young Skywalker. This is the sensitive man I once trained.

Would you like to read my blog? he asked. Always impressed with his writing, I pressed on the link that would take me to his corner of the blogger world. Just as I remembered, the writing was sharp, witty and passionate. Good for him, I thought, and returned to my corner of the blogspot world.

In cleaning my in box out yesterday, I came upon the link again, and decided to see what was new in his life. The title of the most recent entry? My Bachelor Party.

Enjoy him, young female. I spent many hours ensuring that he would run smoothly and consistently without needing to pull too hard on the reins. Enjoy your prompt anniversary cards and calls, him picking up dinner on the random Tuesday night, and his ability to identify a range of emotions beyond "stoked."

You can thank me later.