Curmudgeonly Weekender

There's a broad misconception about us curmudgeonly types that we are surly kill-joy pessimists who hate the world all of the time. Not so, at least in this case. No one has the energy for that sort of single-minded raging fervour these days anyway (with the possible exception of Andrew Bolt). My personal curmudgeonly streak comes more from the sort of warped idealism that genuinely sees how much better the world could be, if only people thought more about things that genuinely matter and were less easily swayed by manipulation of their worst, most insecure sides (Thanks, Border Security and Neil Strauss). There is very little to deeply loathe, for example, about the sort of lazy Saturday that follows a delightful Friday summer evening in good company.

As Bertrand Russell argued, leisure is essential to both human happiness and a functional society. Tea, fruit salad on warm maple pancakes and a copy of the Good Weekend in a peaceful house while the smell of summer rain wafts through the open window may not be Marx's idea of anything other than bourgeois decadence, but the space, time and peace in which to shrug off the pressures of the world must surely be critical to the ability to beat down the oppressiveness of Mondays and the great mass of human stupidity more broadly.

I believe I have come to that point in my life in which solitude has such comfort that, while it is delightful to share the company of a good friend, there is nothing especially lonely about being alone. The opportunity to recharge, rebuild the resilience which has taken a bit of a battering over the past few weeks, is invaluable to a mindset which allows for a healthy curmudgeonly bemusement at the general foolishness of life, rather than anything genuinely bitter and hate-filled.

Mind you, as a complex entity fully capable of experiencing a complex range of (even sometimes contradictory) emotions at the same time, there's still a part of me that, on Friday night encounters with Narcissus at the bar, would like nothing more than to gently shove him (with a feather-light touch of acerbic wit) so that he falls, flailing with a splash into the reflection he is so enamoured of. It's not that I'm opposed to musculature- quite the contrary, in fact - it's just that, well, I can't help think that the time spent polishing one's arm muscles until they are shiny, beyond anything necessary for the mere lifting of stuff, is probably indicative of the kind of insecurity that powers serious mental delusions.

But today is a day of leisurely bliss, which will probably involve the production of baked goods, wandering about the fresh food markets, and other such prosaic joys, and so I shall leave off the curmudgeonly rant about gym junkies for another day.


Coming soon on C is for Curmudgeon:
- Gym Junkies;
- Tracey Grimshaw and Current Affairs Programs as Social Justice Advocates;
- Why Pseudo-Pop-Psychology About Dating Spells Doom for Humanity.