Category Archives: remembering / musing

Permission to play

Being fifty-something, I don’t often engage in play and I’m wondering why that is.

A few days ago I read this article. It’s long and rambly and takes a while to warm up but I found it worth the effort. It’s about giving yourself permission to play, really play in a pure, carefree, child-like way. How long is it since you’ve done that?

The writer makes a clear distinction between play and exercise/sport. I hadn’t  thought about that before.

It really resonated with me. Aha!

I thought about what adult “play” is … dinner parties, conversation over wine or coffee, BBQs, watching sport on TV, watching movies? (If I hadn’t banned myself from talking about sex on the blog, I might well add sex to that collective.)

Nothing child-like, carefree or pure there.

One of my most joyous times of the past few weeks was a spontaneous afternoon of kite flying with Mr P.

fifty-something, kite flying, midlife, play, boomers

We headed down to the breezy common with a couple of dodgy, dusty kites we found in the shed. It didn’t matter that I was in  skungy old trackie pants (with no makeup). It didn’t matter that the sky was overcast and the air blustery.

Everything was perfect for kite flying.

What fun.

We ran. And we ran. We chased the wind. We planned strategy. Up on the rise? Down in the dip? Cross-wind? Downwind. We collaborated. We fell down. We picked each other up. We laughed and laughed and willed those kites sky-wards.

What fun.

There was no ego, no competition. We were just playing. Like a couple of kids.

What fun.

By the time we were done, we were wind-blown, grass-stained and suffering from string-burned fingers. We were also exhilarated.

What fun!

Kite flying was also a bridge back to the past when Dad used to craft kites in the shed, from plastic sheeting and quarter inch dowel and ordinary old string. Our little house was smack-bang in suburbia but on a windy day you could usually spy a handful of kites on the sky-scape.

Dad was allowed to test launch the kites from our back yard, midst the rotary clothesline and threatening powerlines. We (my sisters and I) had to wander around the corner to the local reserve where we’d launch our home-made beauties up into the big sky above the footy ground.

What fun!

In the article above, the author talks about integrating play into your every day. Have you ever considered meeting a friend (instead of at a café for a coffee) in the park for a game of catch or to throw a frisbee?

What fun.

It got me thinking. Mr P and I walk a lot. Sometimes we even ride our bikes. But we’re always headed somewhere, on a mission, even if it’s only to clock up a half hour briskly walked loop to meet our exercise commitment for the day.

What if, instead, we bounced a ball to the park and then kicked it around when we got there? Maybe we could enjoy a swing or a see-saw while we’re there. Or a spur-of-the-moment game of chasey.

What if we simply took turns kicking a can along the street?

Even that would be fun. Because it’s pure and pointless. You don’t have to win or train or keep score. You just have to play.

I hereby give my fifty-something self permission to play.

About these ads

Dearest Coffee Machine

Being fifty-something, the reality of an empty nest has been on the horizon for some time.

Foresight was cold comfort when I returned from a recent holiday to discover that Boy Wonder (my last little chick) had kicked himself out of the family snuggery and into a new adventure with his girlfriend.

empty nest, midlfie, fifty-something

Don’t get me wrong … the possibility had been raised before the event. I guess I was in denial. That is, until I opened up the appliance cupboard and was confronted by a big gap where Boy Wonder’s coffee machine had once lived.

For some weird-and-wacky reason, that’s when it really hit home.

That’s when I knew Boy Wonder was really gone.

And ever since, it’s been about the coffee machine.

nespresso, coffee machine, empty nest, midlife, boomers

Dearest Coffee Machine,

I know you were never really mine.

You were only on loan until you made your way out into the world.

Just the same, I got attached to you (maybe even addicted).

I got accustomed to greeting you every morning and the little lift you gave my day.

As long as you were here, there was the chance of seeing you mid-afternoon, evening or even over dinner.

Sometimes we even shared breakfast. Or lunch.

Sometimes, you sat on the bench top and (together) we solved the world’s big problems.

Now, I miss the kick you gave my every day and I daydream about how to get you back.

Coffee machine, you have left a big empty space in my heart appliance cupboard that no one else can fill.

Not even George Clooney.

Wish you were here.

Love

Mum Sheryl x

george clooney, nespresso, fifty-something,midlife, boomers, empty nest

The fence philosopher

Being fifty-something, I’m happy to grab my life philosophy and learnings when and where I can get ‘em.  I especially love it when I discover them in unexpected moments.

Last year I blogged about our Year of the fecking fence. As I suspected, our fencing phase overlapped into 2013, though only just.

As soon as our neighbours gave the green light for our new joint fence, I went in search of a fencing contractor. Bill the fencer turned up promptly to measure and discuss the job then mailed me back a reasonable quote the next day. In our book, having dealt with tardy tradesmen who take weeks to arrive or even acknowledge your call, Bill was the front-runner.  I didn’t mind his age (I guessed he was sixty-something), his heavy European accent or his struggle with English … I was after his fencing skills not his language skills. And he promised to build me a “schmick” fence.

Yes, Bill got the job.

Before: fecking fence

Before: fecking fence

He arrived early on day 1 and set to work dismantling the old fence, digging the new post holes and finally filling them with cement and new posts before knock-off time.

Day 2 was forecast as a scorcher. By lunchtime, Bill had the horizontal rails in place and the temperature was inching close to 40 degrees (that’s 40 degrees Celsius, folks). I decided to give him the option of knocking off early and coming back to finish the job in the morning when it would be cooler. I tracked him down in our neighbour’s yard.

He declined my offer to head home.

“What else am I gonna do?” he asked. “Another fence to build tomorrow. I said I finish today. I will.”

I surveyed his work so far, noting (aloud) that it was looking good already and that it was going to look great with the palings on.

There, in the dusty dry desolation of our neighbour’s backyard renovation, Bill turned to me, looked directly into my eyes and said (in perfect English): “Nailing on fence palings is like dressing a woman or shaving a man … the finishing touch.”

Like Robert Frost, only different.

In that single moment I understood more about fencing-as-a-craft than ever before and I knew (for certain) that my new fence was, indeed, going to be “schmick”.

fencing, fifty-something, boomers, midlife, philosophy

After: “schmick” fence

And so it came to pass.

If you’re in the Geelong area and after a “schmick” fence with some philosophy thrown in, email me and I’ll hook you up with Bill, the fence whisperer.

Psyching myself up for the family portrait

Being fifty-something, I’m starting to think that there are already too many photo’s of me in this world.

If I was never captured on film (or in pixels) again, the world wouldn’t shift from its axis and I’d be happy enough to be remembered by my pre-fifty-something snapshots. Which is saying something … most of them are shockers.

Let’s face it … who becomes more photogenic with age?

That’s why it was left to the younger generation to suggest we engage a professional photographer to capture a family portrait.

My niece E tells me she was inspired by this earlier blogpost of mine.

Maybe I should have thought that one through more.

How could we say “no”? E was organising it all, had picked a tentative date and had the perfect photographer worded up.

Next Sunday is the day.

It’s looming like an ominous, dark thunderhead on the not-so-far-off horizon.

I’m not ready.

I haven’t lost that 15kg I’d hoped to. (I know: there is not enough spandex in this hemisphere to fix that by Sunday.)

I haven’t grown long flowing Rapunzel-style locks.

I’m looking untanned (some might say pale and wan; I probably have a vitamin D deficiency, to boot).

I haven’t had that crown replaced on that molar (the one that’s been missing now for more than two years).

I feel a pimple coming on just near my lip (surely one outgrows pimples by fifty-something?)

I don’t have a stunning super-photogenic outfit in my wardrobe (not one that fits, anyway).

Still, we have a very loose dress-code, which I’m hoping will work in my favour.

I’m thinking black. Sleek. Slimming. Fade-into-the-background. Invisible.

Maybe a splash of colour to draw attention away from … well, everything.

In a group photo, getting the outfits right hardly ever happens. I just hope we can avoid something like this:

Or this:

Yikes!

Sunday is looming fast. I’ve mentally noted some tips for the day (to hopefully avoid some of those inevitable “why didn’t I just …?” moments after the event, when the portraits have been printed in super-size and framed underglass for future generations to view).

Come click-time, I’ll be:

  • standing tall
  • sucking my belly in
  • pushing my chin out and head forward (to unfold those extra chins and swan-ify my neck)
  • hiding my chicken-feet hands behind my back
  • turning slightly to the side (obviously)
  • attempting a graceful ballet-girl stance of some sort (but probably toppling over)
  • jostling for a position at the back (but probably toppling over)
  • fluffing some volume into my hair at the sides
  • checking I don’t have a cocky’s crest of spiky hair on top
  • slapping on some lip gloss (lots of it)
  • trowelling concealer all over that pimple
  • smiling as graciously, genuinely and widely as I can without revealing the toothy gap or emphasising the crow’s feet

Mostly, I’ll be looking skywards and hoping with all my might for the clouds to part and a shaft of Doris-Day-lens-perfect-softening-light to shine its loving little heart down on us.

All of us.

Bring it on.

Do you suppose she has a pimple on her chin? Photo credit: http://www.last.fm

Diddly-squat

Being fifty-something, I’m weirdly attracted to those magazine articles that promise to add a few more years to life-as-I-know-it.

I mean, you just never know what revolutionary font of youth you might discover.

Recently, the following caught my eye as number three below a heading 30 Ways to Live Longer:

Mmm. Who’d have thunk?

The squat (or at least the notion of the squat) has entered (and departed) my life on several previous occasions. None of them glow with happy, shiny memories.

In 1990, pregnant with my second child (Wonder Boy), I was feeling brave and ready to try something different with this delivery. At my first visit with the obstetrician, right in the middle of the physical examination (because nervous chatter is the only way I know to survive a pelvic exam) I expressed my desire for an unusual delivery plan.

“I’d like to deliver in the squatting position … like African women do,” I offered up.

Mr Smith (his name was Garnet Smith but like all top medical specialists of the day, he had dropped the Dr for Mr) took his eye off the business end of the examination, turned his head and looked me in the eye, peering over the top of his glasses.

“Well you should have thought about that eighteen months ago, dear,” he snapped. “You’d have needed to be training up these muscles for that long,” he added, slapping my nearside thigh. “Those women on the Serengeti spend their entire lives squatting. They’re built for it. You, my dear, are not.”

This could have been me …

And with that slap, my dream of a “special” delivery dissolved and I resigned myself to a traditional Western experience.

I guess it was worth a try. Don’t judge me … it was the nineties.

In 2007, during an airport touchdown in Dubai I found myself in a line of multicultural ladies, all waiting to use the loo. I was delighted when a woman emerged from a nearby cubicle, chose me from the line and waved me through (with a friendly smile) to the loo she was vacating. What a kind local, I thought to myself, and thanked her for her hospitality. But when I stepped inside the cubicle, I was horrified – and confronted with a hole in the floor and a footprint painted on either side. This was not a Western toilet.

I know. This was my chance to shine. But a haunting flashback to Mr Smith’s medical rooms had me doubting my squatting ability. I imagined myself falling face first into that watery hole. I high-tailed it out of there, to the back of the line … and to the soundtrack of giggling ladies who had obviously set me up.

Touche.

In 2010, I was again confronted by the squat. I had ventured back into the gym, having bartered my copywriting services for a personal training program. One look at my thunder thighs and my-new-best-friend-the-trainer prescribed a program almost entirely based on squats or lunges. Swiss ball squats, Bosun ball squats in the park, squats on boxes, squats beneath the smith machine and free squats with a barbell and weights (as if my body weight wasn’t enough weight). Over a period of several months, my body grew strong, my muscles toughened up and I was making progress.

Yes, I had mastered the squat.

Twenty years too late to experience African-style childbirth.

Three years too late to save myself humiliation in a foreign airport.

Of course, my gym attendance has since fallen by the wayside (as it does) and so has my fitness.

The squat “window” was fleeting.

I am again un-squattable.

Chances of me regaining that fitness in the next little fifty-something while? Diddly-squat.

I have reached and gone beyond my squat “peak”.

Mr Smith was right. Then and now. I’m just not built for it.

Whatever gets you through … teen parenting

Being fifty-something, I know that the difference between a crappy haircut or hair colour and a good one is just a few weeks’ growing time.

Still, it’s no consolation for mothers of teenage princesses who choose to use their hair to express themselves (the princesses, I mean, not the mothers).

I recently had coffee with my fifty-something friend W whose teen daughter is doing just that.

I haven’t seen it for myself but apparently she is sporting one of those asymmetrical looks … you know the one: shaved up one side of the head and long flowing locks on the other. I think of it as the someone-got-to-Barbie-with-their-safety-scissors-while-Mum-wasn’t-looking look. W’s daughter is beautiful and I’m sure she’s rocking her ‘do big-time. No consolation for W. Especially when her daughter’s plan is to dye the ‘do purple.

Ah, it takes me back. My Girl spent her teen years sporting red hair. Not a natural shade of red. No. She insisted on bright, scarlet red. I think the hair dye colour was “Scarlet Shimmer”.

Photo by Tilly Mint at http://www.flickr.com

Shimmer she did. For years on end. Relentless years while we waited for her to “outgrow” it.

Meanwhile, Mr P and I took it in turns dyeing her hair. It was a great opportunity for bonding and saved us big bucks. Mostly, it let us retain a glimmer of control, a scarlet shimmer of parental involvement. Her friends thought we were pretty groovy … we thought we might be crazy.

I’d read that folk who rebelled as teens were less likely to succumb to a midlife crisis in later years. We clung to incredible not-based-in-science positives like that.

We consoled ourselves with “better than a tattoo” (that was yet to come) and “better than a facial piercing” (also yet to come).

There was the failed attempt at a nose piercing that came loose during a tearful night of teenage angst. Seems there’s a window for having your nose stud reinserted and if you miss it because your mum won’t let you take time off school to do the deed then … well, it’s too late. School attendance (unlike hair colour) was always non-negotiable in our house.

Just when we thought we were growing used to the hair colour, My Girl’s cousin’s wedding day rolled around. A big fat family wedding. It was a busy morning trying to get organised and I hurriedly sent My Girl down to the hairdresser for a professional “tidy-up” for her long, single length hair, omitting to give any instructions. A teenage girl, at the hairdresser with no firm boundaries set. Trouble. She returned not long after with a high-volume, chunkily layered, product-boasting mullet that any rock chick would be proud of. Not so much me. I was horrified. When we purchased a layered tulle skirt for her to wear to the wedding, I’d seen hippy princess; she’d seen rock goddess.

At least she’s easy to spot in the wedding photo’s.

Now twenty-six, My Girl has tried out most of the available hair colours. Her naturally strawberry blonde hair has been white blonde and black (sometimes concurrently) and is now (as at last sighting) dark, dark brown.  She’s as gorgeous now as she was then. I just didn’t see it so much because I was so tied up in the responsibility of parenting and wondering how we were going to weather that storm and what people were thinking.

That’s why I so admire my friend W and how she is choosing to handle the “hair” situation at her house.

She doesn’t make a fuss. She doesn’t nag about it. She doesn’t comment.

She ignores it.

Whenever possible, she positions herself on the “good” side of her daughter (the unshaved side) and pretends everything is just fine.

Because it is.

Jack Sparrow and the (metaphorical) circle of life

Being fifty-something, I know we can learn a lot from the animal world.

Especially from our domesticated friends, like our Jack Sparrow (pirate cat and bon vivant).

Jack’s not the most worldly of cats. He didn’t venture outside for the first seven years of his life (not unless you count that time he fell out the bathroom window).

It doesn’t take much to put him off his game.

Perhaps it’s our new French doors.

Perhaps it’s the particular height of the sun in the sky at this time of year.

Perhaps it’s Jack having a midlife crisis of some sort.

Jack’s newest midlife dilemma goes like this:

He approaches the back door, meowing to be allowed in.

As I swing the door open, it creates light reflections on the decking.

Jack is (at once) fascinated and fearful of the reflections. They are his “predators of the wild” to be stalked and possessed. He chases them obsessively around the deck before getting spooked and skittering down the stairs and into the yard.

I close the door.

A few minutes later, Jack returns to the door, meowing to be allowed back in.

We go through the exact same process again.

And again.

And again.

There it is … the metaphorical circle of life.

If I were Doctor Dolittle I would tell Jack straight (damn straight): “Chasing shiny objects puts you off your main game. You need to focus on what you want. Take the opportunities (like the open door) when they appear. Key take-away: focus.”

If I were Doctor Dolittle, I’d deliver that advice in a lilty-show-tune-kind-of-way.

But I’m not. So I yell at Jack in my cranky-old-woman voice: “Feck off then you moggy muppet. I am not opening the door for you again. Ever!”

And thus the circle of life is broken.

For ever.

(Until next time.)

When the REAL truth lurks

Being fifty-something, I know that there are many truths in friendship.

Especially in female fifty-something friendships.

There are the day-to-day “press release” truths you share and quip, often in multi-age company:

“Fifty is the new forty”

“You’re only as old as you feel”

“I can do anything I want”.

Then there are the half-truths, the group think concepts you buy into as part of conversations. Maybe you’re marvelling at those parents who still have their thirty-something kids at home, lamenting the horror of hot flashes or wondering when that mutual acquaintance started looking so old. (“She’s really let herself go, hasn’t she?”)

Then there are the REAL truths, the ones that lurk in the darkness, twixt yesterday and today, midway between today and tomorrow.

Photo by Rosa Say http://www.flickr.com

REAL truths live in rare bare-your-soul moments that fill the void left behind by the stimuli of day-to-day chatter and group think.

And so it came to pass in the wee hours of this past Saturday morning. My friend L and I survived the witching hour by solving the problems of the world, catching up on her holiday happenings and sharing all the gossip we know.

We had reached the moment of REAL truth. 3.00am.

You know …

… when the  candle wicks have flickered, fizzled and fossilised in their own wax

… when all that’s left on the anti pasto platter is crunchy green stuff, olive pits and cracker crumbs.

… when we tire of feeding CDs to the player so our conversation tangoes above the soundtrack of Mr P’s snoring from the bedroom (where he took refuge an hour ago at the first hint of girl talk)

… when we both know another bottle of red is out of the question so we settle into a nightcap of whiskey (neat).

That’s when REAL truths lurk.

We surrender our chatter to serious discussion about how we’ll survive our empty nests. Can we ever stop worrying about our kids and trying to “fix” what needs fixing in their lives? We agree never … that our maternal instincts are too powerful. We share the enormous sense of loss we’ve already felt as our first-leavers flew the nest. Yes, the loss is like grief and sits there in your chest like grief does, pushing upwards in a constant swallow reflex. We decide that’s normal. Our normal.

But what’s normal with menopause? We discover the REAL truth that we’re less concerned by night sweats and hot flashes than we are by what menopause means to us as women. That’s a very personal (REAL) truth.

We talk about feeling old … because some days we do; we just can’t admit it in daylight.

We have to wait out the witching hour, twixt yesterday and today, when the moment’s right for REAL truth.

Then we can admit anything.

That’s what fifty-something friends do.

In the frame – a stranger’s memories

Being fifty-something doesn’t mean I get it right every time.

Quite the opposite. And because I’m wiser (with age, of course) I’m more aware when I get it wrong. Always after the fact.

Obviously, I should have asked for help (or joined a support group) on this one earlier.

Much earlier.

Here’s how it unfolded.

A couple of weeks back, I unearthed this huge vintage atlas at the local book fair. By huge, I mean the pages are almost A3 size and have those gorgeous muted colours typical of atlases printed in the 1960s. Love at first sight.

For just $2 I snavelled it up, dreaming of flawlessly executing all sorts of crafts, many inspired by this post I shared a while back.

I lugged the big, bound beauty home (I’d been schlepping around the neighbourhood without the car) and settled in with a cup of tea to explore the pages. (Is it just me who spends hours exploring atlas pages?)

Inside I found a secret. Between pages 52 and 53 was a clutch of flowers and foliage carefully placed between tissue paper.

They’d been there for some time, pressed flat and dry and fragile and precious.

I wondered what made them special. Perhaps they were a travel keepsake or a memento of a special day or a special place.

I wondered who had placed them in this big, bound beauty and why they hadn’t retrieved them.

I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

Yes. I had been ambushed by a stranger’s memories. (I am a serial ambushee, it seems).

Any clear thinking person would have returned the flowers to the secret spot between Pages 52 and 53. Where they belonged.

Not me. I felt an urge to preserve the stranger’s memories.

I grabbed a frame from my box of second-hand frames. (Why the surprise face? Doesn’t everyone have a box of second-hand frames?)

I schlapped on a couple of coats of white paint and some white wax then arranged within the frame the stranger’s flowers, over a piece of the original tissue over a guillotined page of the atlas.

Feeling chuffed, I stood back to admire my work.

Now wasn’t that a Whiskey Tango Foxtrot(!) moment?

I was struck by two things:

1. I had shown more care and respect to a stranger’s memories than I ever do to my own (mine are unashamedly unsorted, unloved and left to their own devices to ambush me unawares).

2. I was teetering on the edge of the abyss of something terrifying … scrapbooking.

If any of you has anything to offer up to explain/resolve Number 1, I’d love to hear from you. Particularly if you have a psychological bent … surely there is a syndrome that covers this. (Memorünchausen Syndrome by Proxy springs to mind.)

As for Number 2, please grab me and pull me back from the abyss (fast and firm).

Recognising that I’ve betrayed my own memories in favour of those of a stranger is frightening in itself, but not nearly as daunting (or irreversible) as becoming a scrapbooker.

s

a

v

e

m

e