I went out for dinner with four friends, we once worked for the same magazine and have been seeing each other two to three times a year ever since, only to find out aloud that the shine has worn off. Its own decay becomes visible through the rest. The last time I was there I almost died because I choked with laughter, I go hard on other people’s misery if it is told well.
The timing was not perfect this time, the appointment coincided with the Netherlands-Argentina. We sat at a table in front of a slide screen specially prepared for us, which initially attracted little enthusiasm from the other guests. The level of the competition did not stand in the way of the conversations. I actually thought it was quite ideal and resolved to watch football like this more often.
We found each other in the pleasant idea that Belgium had already been eliminated and that we felt no connection at all with this generation of internationals.
We had all gotten even older, and tired even faster. One of us told how he had argued one day in a holiday home because his wife and daughter accused him of eating too many blueberries from the communal plastic container for breakfast.
The eldest lost his glasses, which later turned out to have fallen into a mound of puree, the waiter brought them back clean and washed.
A small majority were not at all impressed by the boundless behavior of the presenter behind the scenes at DWDD. “This is how I have been treated at home for years,” said one of my friends. “Every idea is mercilessly shot down. I get scolded if I leave a yellow cloth on the counter or mess with the toothpaste. Why is it never about that?”
Someone was recently tagged, so that they could trace at home in which of the seven locks he had cycled again. He showed three AirTags. Another was offended that she let him go without a problem these days.
“Whenever I am somewhere, the younger generation passes me without looking up or back. Like I’m a pillar of salt.”
Two goals from Wout Weghorst against Argentina, one of which came in the last minute. Next to me someone said how rich he could have been if he had bet on it.
Things got busier around us, someone got into my dessert – raspberry ice cream – and I lost a shoe. After the penalty kicks we were just five exhausted friends at a table again.
Marcel van Roosmalen writes an exchange column with Ellen Deckwitz here.
A version of this article also appeared in the December 12, 2022 newspaper