I spent last night at Bent Tree Country Club for the annual dinner of Yale Club of Dallas. This is the third time I’ve gone to a club event since I’ve been in Dallas, and each time I arrive with the faint hope that there’ll be someone close to my age there. And each time, I’m disappointed — it’s gray hair as far as the eye can see.
After I showed up, a guy walked up to me and started chatting. “Doesn’t look like there are too many of us younger people here,” he said. His name tag said: Class of ’73. 1973! He’s probably 50! He graduated before I was born! But at that moment, he and I truly made up the young crowd. (Thankfully, my friend Natacha showed up a bit later, which was welcome, both because I hadn’t seen her in a couple of months and because she can breathe without the aid of an oxygen tank and has no liver spots.)
On the way in, a youngish guy wearing a golf shirt in an SUV asked me what was going on at the club tonight that brought all these cars into the parking lot. I told him. “Ah, rich people,” he said dismissively. He said dismissively, while driving his Lexus LX 470 away from his tee time at his country club. It’s always interesting seeing Old Money and New Money collide, each thinking the other unworthy of their riches. (I, of course, represent that all-important third category, No Money.)
Anyway, dinner was nice, if only because of the dessert: a noble cannoli, prompting fond memories of Libby’s Italian, the true highlight of four years in New Haven.