Never Knuckling Under

I lead a sheltered life and keep myself to myself, more or less by popular demand. Not that long ago I was reacquainted with the 'knuckle bump,' a phase or craze that had somehow eluded me. My luck ran out, I guess. 

I had no idea what the person intended when he put his right fist straight out, but I confess to flinching and bracing for impact. Then nothing happened. I opened my eyes and he stared at me the same way I stared at my plate years ago when I learned 'calamari' was Italian for squid.

In retrospect, I appreciated the crash course on cool I received -except I know instinctively that what an old guy thinks is cool, ain't. All those trick pygmy pony handshakes from years gone by--the ones that look like they were choreographed by Alvin Ailey. Except when I do them it's more like Jerry Lewis.

I am, like it or not, a living fossil, and the former portion of that assertion is subject to some discussion I've been told. Since most of that all happens after I've toddled off to bed, I have no first-hand knowledge of the respective positions except to note Wednesday is trash day in my neighborhood and so far I haven't awakened on a  Wednesday morning and found myself curbside.

I've accepted my place as an aging bebop doofus hipster who became far more decorative than useful decades ago and then, as my looks faded and old age set in, took to staying indoors until the sun went down because I was frightening the neighborhood children. 

They, like our two, are grown and gone, so I can wander around to my heart's content secure in the knowledge that anyone I meet will work very hard to avoid even acknowledging me much less exchanging greetings. Which is too bad, really, as I'm getting pretty good with knuckle-bumping.
-bill kenny