Waving Not Drowning

As a consequence of leading a sheltered life, I end up having encounters that while perfectly normal for Hugh or You, are sometimes disconcerting for me. The other day I had the chance for the first time in my life (at least in this one) to 'knuckle bump' with someone. 

I had no idea what he was intending when he put his right fist straight out but I flinched and braced for impact. When nothing happened, I more or less opened my eyes and he was staring at me the same way I stared at my plate years ago when I learned 'calamari' was Italian for squid. Apparently, it takes the place of a handshake in the post-covid world. Who knew? (Not me.)

I never ate lunch, or any other meal, at the cool kids' table, so I appreciated the crash course on hip I received -except I know instinctively that what an old guy thinks is cool, probably ain't. All those trick pygmy pony handshakes from years gone by--the ones that look like they were choreographed by Alvin Ailey or George Balanchine; when I try to do them it's more like Jerry Lewis.

I am a living fossil and the former part of that assertion is subject to discussion I've been told. Since most of that happens after I've toddled off to bed, I've no firsthand knowledge of the respective positions, except to note that Wednesday is rubbish day in my neighborhood, and so far, I haven't awakened on Wednesday mornings and found myself curbside (so far, so good).

I've accepted my role 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, for the most part, 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 the knuckle-bumping.
-bill kenny