I came home the other day with an exciting story for my wife, something to keep the marriage lively.

“A lady grabbed me in the store,” I announced, although her reaction was a little subdued. It takes a bit more, I guess, after all these years. I would probably have to break a plate or something.

But it happened. You know the footage of all the teenage girls going berserk when the Beatles first came to America? The screaming, the crying, how they rushed the stage and tried desperately to touch one of the guys? So, it wasn’t like that.

I do have fans, though, or at least readers. I’ve met some of you recently, in different public situations, and it’s been pure pleasure. Although usually we just shake hands.

Still, this was what it was. An attractive woman, about my age, grabbed me around the shoulders in a public place and held on for a few moments. Long enough to be more than casual. Long enough for anyone observing to take notice of the contact. Long enough for me to take notice, too.

“If she’d held on two more seconds,” I told my wife, “I would have gotten a column out of it.”

Obviously my journalistic standards are fairly fluid.

It was a matter of physics, involving several laws of motion. I’d just paid for my groceries and was heading out. This woman, an employee, obviously was trying to get to another part of the store quickly. In one of those exquisite public dances we all do, usually in malls, she’d apparently timed her pace to coincide with mine, so our paths would intersect at the exact moment for her to slip past me.

And since I’ve been in this particular store a couple of times a week (at least) for years and years, and she’s worked there for a while now, we’re not strangers at all. She’s always struck me as efficient, friendly and energetic. She probably intended to pat me on the shoulder as we passed, but something happened, one of us slowed, something.

She ended up clipping my heel, she grabbed my shoulders, we had a few moments of mild imbalance and mutual reassurance, then smiles and laughs and we went on our way, her to do her job and me to tell my wife, end of not-so-riveting story.

Except to note that, as a rule, family and friends aside, women do not usually grab me in public.

So obviously I’m writing about Tiger Woods.

Aside from the above, let me establish my lack of authority on the subject even more. I’m not a golf person. I don’t play, watch or follow the sport. It’s not a philosophical choice; I know lots of golfers, including my wife. It just never happened for me. On those rare occasions when, say, the Masters is on and my wife is watching, I still need clarification on the difference between a bogie and a birdie. I don’t know about the types of clubs. I can’t name any of the top golfers.

But I know Tiger, of course. Everyone knows Tiger, and I’ll tell you what I think.
I think Tiger Woods is awesome. I wish I were as awesome as Tiger Woods.
The man is obviously amazingly fit, dedicated, disciplined and completely driven about his chosen profession. I admire the hell out of people like this. He’s sort of like an astronaut.

Otherwise? I can’t figure out why I should care about his serial adultery, about his marriage, about his life. I don’t know why I should disapprove of his behavior, or approve, or, as I said, care.

I’m tempted to point out that at about the same time that Tiger’s sex life went public, a book came out documenting the adventures of Warren Beatty, whose love life apparently makes Tiger look tame. He wasn’t married, so I guess we can wink and wonder without alarming our inner Puritans, but I don’t care about that, either. I really like “McCabe and Mrs. Miller.”

Tom Hanks is a good guy. Mel Gibson has a dark side. Mark McGwire used steroids. John Wayne was a bone fide draft dodger. Jennifer Aniston got her heart broken. Mickey Mantle was a drunk. Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

I understand why people are interested. I’m interested, too, but only to wonder how famous people live, how they deal with temptation and attention, what it must be like to fall from grace spectacularly.

Mostly, though, I just see their movies, their performances, their games. I admire their talent. I will watch “Rio Bravo” any time I catch it.

And my role models remain family, teachers, and friends. They sustain me in my own falls from grace, which happen all the time, although quietly, without headlines.

Although I do like meeting readers, as I say. It’s fun. But no touching. Just to be safe.