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In general, wouldn’t you say, accounts and accounting favor numbers. But isn’t it interesting that an account can mean a retelling. And then there’s no accounting for taste. 

The twisty turns of English are hazard and challenge and safeguard so far aiding humans in the AI game where creeks marine identifies a foreign navy.

No accounting, having no way to measure or explain, is a reminder with practical value. 

A good many readers will have no difficulty taking my word for it when I muse the imponderable of too oft being attracted to others’ who’d prefer a root canal without anesthetic to spending time with me.

Skeptics of that observation would be among those attaching to me despite my fervent wish that they Go Away. 

There’s simply no accounting for such things occurring with annoying regularity, not that I’ve been much blessed-cursed with popularity.

I recently bumped into a recollection I pass along in case it might amuse or remind you of something similar. 

I wasn’t looking for anything when I was randomly called to a nearby home. Not one to remember addresses, I knew the house having dated a girl living there. Nice girl. Connecting through speech or Red Cross, we steadied for a fairly long time. Nothing wrong with that, plus I didn’t mind. Not at all. 

Another factor, however, held me. An uncommonly tall girl (nine feet, so it seemed to me), she had a great advantage. Had I bolted she’d have caught me in a few strides, fold me in half and dunk the bundle through a basketball hoop. Not that interested in the game, I stayed put with few complaints.

Except. For Miss Ostrich leg Giraffe Princess having an additional title: Anniversary Queen. 
Full panic hit hearing, “Do you know what today is?  

Day of week, say Monday, was never correct. 

This meant I had to remember something as remote from my mind as Saturn. Confessing was sure to bring a wail of tears, nasty wet salt drops, destroyers of teen-male romanticism. 

Knowing I faced some anniversary event, I also knew of ways out. I’d ask as eagerly honey-toned as I was able, “Was I in the sport coat?”

Strange question? 

No. I had, you see, three date-night outfits. Navy blue suit for formal date situations. Mid-range tweedy brown sport coat. For trendy casual a pink shirt with charcoal gray pants. Not that I knew the cause, pink and gray was in at the time. The cause, television. 

Because white shirts burned an image on the image orthicon camera pink and blue shirts came into vogue replacing white for television personalities. 

Anyroad, happily ignorant of the TV cause, I liked the pink-gray combo best, but usually opted for the sport coat guess as safe because usually able to read her reaction I’d know whether to move up or down the formality scale. 

Why did it matter? Simple. Age 15 I didn’t want her to be upset and cloud the payday of fluid exchange.
Got you, didn’t I? Also called spit swapping and making out, The Giraffe Queen was a more-than-skilled swapper. 

The summer before, an older out-of-town girl was the one who introduced me to this life-upsetting diversion. 

I could rightly have charged her with assault, but ultimately had little cause for complaint, especially when ostrich leg proved both keen and adept. 

The trick of divining what event and which outfit we wore on some occasion I had scant memory of was critical for smooth progression to the swapping game. If I got it right all might be well. If not there’d be sorrow, tears and recrimination over my failure to recall pink taffeta (taffeta never did imprint on my mind, at least not the way swapping did). 

On occasions (50/50?) I guessed right there could be a highly pleasant interlude before an inconclusive conclusion. 

Well, we, I for one anyway, live with the conditions we’re given. I may want better, with as much possibility and sense as wanting my own tropical island or obedience to my whims. Wish away, for all the good that’ll do.

There wasn’t a thing wrong with the Anniversary Queen except for more. Seemed to me it took far too much effort to maintain our stasis. 

What to do? 

I cheated. Cheating was fine for a while, until discovery, which was bad. To the good, the second of my misadventures had not been discovered. Good. Except, that is, for the annoying way girls have of sharing information and then acting in unison to condemn the unfaithful cheater. 

Reminding two of the three that THEY had helped was singularly ineffective as persuasion. So drat. The best choice, good gosh, was to crawl back to the long-leggy one and take my chances. Convincing apology good as the real item, I bended knee. 

The grimy reality of solo fluid loss (sweating) was better than solitary, plus legs gained the added crown of Princess Forgiveness.

The relationship killer was something I did but not my fault. After an event, I sought a secure place to spit-swap. To me perfect location, super dark under the ski jump. Great choice until time to leave. Got stuck. Then the bulb lit. Perfect spot meant nobody would see or come to our aid. 

A girl in a formal is not a good hiker, nor happy. Destroyed hose and muddy formal were a bridge or two too far. The end. Getting our car unstuck, my father asked “What in hell were you thinking driving up here?” 

I confessed, “Dad, thought had nothing to do with it. Not a thing.”

I started by saying there was often no accounting. Then by sidestepping to a story I believe I illustrated that 14 or 40 we’re capable of foolishness and poor decision. 

Of course, like most of us, I like to believe I make wise choices. 

What do you believe? 

As the cop who appeared to investigate our car extraction commotion at the ski jump said, “I hope it was worth it, kid.”

Was it? I didn’t know then nor, do I now.