Taking A Hint

 As Dave Week nears, the make believe narcissistic half a fortnight celebration of my turning 64, I have been reflecting and analyzing more than usual.

And yesterday's theme, after I returned from Band Camp and a going away hug from Belkys, the medical assistant who got to know me more intimately than most women in my life, was taking a hint.

Many people I know never developed that skill. They continue to try to have relationships with others who truly care little or not at all about them -- and keep on and keep on.

I guess I developed the skill early on -- I was always lucky to have different groups of friends, and if one group found me burdensome or annoying -- no whoop -- I'd go to another. 

A family member is a prime example. She's a well meaning person, who for years sent gifts that were, well, a bit off. Either it was clothing that the recipient wouldn't be caught dead in, or trinkets seen as silly. She never received a thank you -- actually -- learned that the recipients made fun of her choices.

Did she take the hint? Nope. Whenever she would see something at a thrift store, or antique shop, she would take the time and effort (usually not great expense) and send another gift. I think she finally got it -- I no longer hear about fun being made of her quirky generosity -- and that's a good thing.

And I get it. She sent a shirt to Little Man, since she saw it and laughed -- imagining him in it looking way cool. The problem is it's half his size. D1 could have rolled her eyes and said "Wow -- you have zero idea how big my son is," but instead thanked her and told her that Baby Man would enjoy it. D1's learned another key lesson -- it's better to be kind than it is to be correct.

Meanwhile, last night I met Pat at Captain's Tavern, and we caught up about the markets, politics, and most importantly his Gators and my Canes. I invited him to come to the game with me in September -- doing my part of the fading DEI initiative by having diversity among fans -- he'll let me know soon.

We shared some great times over the years -- we reminisced about Hurricane Wilma, in 2005, and how our families fled to Orlando and Atlanta lest they live without power for 10 days or so, and how he and I happily cavemanned it -- dinner at his CC Rivieria, and nightcaps at Fox's, and sometimes grilling in the blissfully cool October nights.

We drank our share of Midleton Irish whiskey -- back when it was $100 per bottle. Now: over $300.

His wife Susan is leaving for a month in mid October-mid November for eye surgery by her brother in Sarasota -- overlapping with Wifey's trip to Iberia for 10 days.

We may reprise our temporary bachelorhoods -- this time with some Canes games thrown in.

Pat, like me, knows how to take a hint...