In Fifteen Minutes - 1/27/2002

I will have to get ready to become part of that generation that sips coffee from special imported glassware and pretend that this is the way life is to be enjoyed. In fifteen minutes I will have to appear interested in the grousings of an overaged "I don't dare ask her whether she likes me" adolescent who doesn't realise that the first thing to getting attached to someone is finding out if in the first place that person is attached (unless you do not have morals or think you are so suave you'll be able to sweep anyone who's not married - let's play fair - off their feet). And so I zip off this note in protest of 30 somethings who take Sunday nights as the only time they will come down from their yuppie world and commune with slackos like me. I will pay scant attention to their musings on how golf is supposed to be the most elegant of sports, and stir rapidly my skimmed mild latte when he mentions how fortunate I am to be a mere teacher, unlike the corporate workaholic that he is. I will break the biscotti with care while he whines about how he doesn't have a life because he's such a sought after IT consultant ... And yet I'll go for coffee with the dude because at a certain level I am so much aware that I'm probably more like him than I'd like to admit.

We like to be with ourselves, especially when we see ourselves in another person. But what if I see myself in a way that I don't want to? What if I become a class conscious yuppie --

In spite of all the irritation every time I hear the same pontifications on how his life is so painful cause he works longer hours, gets paid more, wears ties to work, drives around, plays golf and has no inner life (as has been defined, rather pathetically, in these OD entries), I'll still have coffee with him.

Cause he picks up the bill.

To HFC - for coffee and philosophical musings on a Sat afternoon - no better company!