Blame Diddy

Last night J played poker with some friends of a friend. This friend of ours is a former intern to another friend and half a dozen years younger than us. We once went to a birthday party with this group of friends and we were by far the oldest and stodgiest. I like to think that we are still hip and maybe for the over 30 crowd we are, but not in the world of the just-out-of-college. Apparently we are on the approved list because we have been invited back for other events but I think of us as an example of what they will be someday not who they are now. I don’t even know if we’re who they want to be. Maybe we’re there as a warning of who they could become if they’re not careful.

He came home very late last night so we didn’t talk about the game other than, of course, my question to him about winning because I needed to know if I should quit my job or not (answer hint: I am at work as I’m writing this).

This morning he held his fist up to me, knuckles pointed towards me. “Do this,” he said. I held up my fist and he knocked his into mine. “And this,” he said, cupping his hand and facing the palm up, the thumb vertical to the floor. Instead of a cupped hand, palm sideways, thumb horizontal to the floor which allows for a normal handshake, this tilted version just allows for a brief cupping and a sort of half hug if one adds that to the greeting. “I don’t understand,” he said. “The fist knocking, the not really a handshake handshake. What is that?”

“That’s what Diddy does,” I told him.

“Diddy?! This is Diddy’s fault? We can’t shake hands anymore like normal people because of Diddy?!”

“Yes,” I said. “Diddy has made us old and uncool.” Damn you, Diddy.

[The rain is so heavy it looks like it’s coming from the ground and from the sky and from the buildings. It’s chilly, too, which makes it perfect school and fall and NFL weather, all good things!]