Ennui

A bunch of nice blokes all approaching 50 years of age go out for dinner and drinks, pre Christmas.

They are all well educated (at the same tertiary institution) and fairly successful and have risen through their varied professions to the top of the pyramid (as it is).

Some are straight as a die and the others have a defect strain of behaviours which they sort of nurture and in some cases hide. But all up, they are all functional.

With or without alcohol, the subject matter seems fairly familiar. One talks too much about work, another about women, yet another proffers little from the heart. Each has their idiosyncrasies that are well understood, if not discussed, and accepted.

The theme of the night is ‘no partners’ since the environment is the pubs frequented by a younger crowd. That is, this is a retro-night, the pretence of being younger and possibly single. Bird-cage.

At 50, unlike 30, the sense of adventure ahead is diminished. The sense of purpose that comes simply from being young and ambitious is gone. Each is trying to manufacture a reason to keep moving forward other than the lack of an alternative plan.

It appears that affluence and success breed ennui. And the company of fellow travellers is no real salve.

One announces that his father died yesterday; this casts a reflective gloom over the proceedings. And rightly so. But it was an indictment too, of old school parenting all around, where functionality trumped love.