Tripping over fine line between love and hate

I don’t love Donald Trump. Then again, I don’t hate Donald Trump.

And, for the love of all that is holy, I certainly would never even entertain the thought of ANSWERING the question: “Did you vote for Donald Trump?” Even I’M not that simple. Sheesh!

Take him or leave him, it does seem to appear that the press just can’t stay away from him, doesn’t it?

Truth be told, I have seen even worse presidential candidates.

But getting back to the no-brainer question to avoid — I’m sticking with the GoGo’s, on this one, my lips are sealed.

And that isn’t always such a bad thing, every so often, now, is it? OK, no petty Patty puns, please.

Back to the whole affection versus disgust conundrum, it got me to thinking about the “thin line between love and hate” concept.

I was chatting with some girlfriends recently and the topic popped right up like that little bobbly thing near the end of a fishing line before you get to the hook. Er, somethin’ like that.

Anyhoo, as the girls and I sat chit-chatting, we dove into the subject deeper than Ohio’s Great Blue Hole.

OK, fine, I really have no idea how far down that thing goes. I just remember being very intimidated by it when my father took us to see it many moons ago. I digress.

First of all, love and hate are two humongously heavy words. Be careful when, where and to whom they are uttered.

But if the line separating them is so scrawny, why can’t we just pull that sucker into the shape of a heart?

What I mean to say is, if it’s a tug-of-war, there are a great many of us whom we want love to be the team that yanks the hardest and wins the whole shebang, capisce?

Burt Bacharach was onto something back in 1965 when he wrote the song “What the World Needs Now.” For those with the cheap seats in the back, the punchline is “love, sweet love.”

You’ll remember the lyrics warned, “That’s the only thing that there’s just too little of.”

Except for coffee. I can never have enough coffee. Or dark chocolate. I’m sort of a dark chocolate monger, as it were. Either way.

After spending two hours at the grocery store a few days ago with my favorite (yes, and only) sister Gina, I have to give props to old Burt. Because after smiling and saying “hello” to the 17th consecutive person in the market who refused to offer even so much as a slight of hand wave, I was convinced we are, indeed, in short supply of, you know, the niceness factor.

“What, it’s not like I’m asking them for a kidney, for crying out loud,” I said while sorta crying out loud.

Gina and I went about our way as I professed that I am officially disembarking the common courtesy cruise.

“I’m serious. I’m not smiling or saying hello or holding doors open anymore. Ever!” I huffed.

But then I saw the sweetest little old lady struggling with her cart and I just had to run over and give her a hand.

Oh, and I’d wish you all a happy week but as I hinted, I’m trying out curmudgeonly for size.

Fine, I’m the world’s worst ogre. Happy Sunday and have a good week all — even the nonsmilers.

Kimerer is a hopelessly happy human. Try not to break her spirit when contacting her at pakimerer@icloud.com.


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