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Archive for the ‘getting older’ Category

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own. – Mary Schmich

 

 

Gawd remember how contorted we used to get in the back seat of your Cortina?

 

Yeah…what was that colour called again?

 

Heh, yeah I don’t remember either…some kinda dark green…

 

ahh we were so young back then…oh… remember it had the sunroof that always leaked?

 

Ah yeah… that’s right it only ever leaked on me if you turned a corner too fast. You turned a lot of freakin’ fast corners back then…

 

Yeah heh… wet-tshirts always were your favourite… pfft…

 

Oh yeah that’s right…  british racing green…yeah racing green…

 

Gawd… remember the stick shift knob? It would always fall off…

 

Yeah really, reeeeally ironic… heh…

 

Oh my gawd… I forgot about that night…

 

The egg … heh heh… did it  fall on the boot or the bonnet I can’t remember?

 

On the boot, yeah you’re right… geez it gave me a fright… I knew we’d been egged… but remember what you said?

 

Yep that it musta fallen out of that tree… from a nest… fek me… yeah babe …you would have said just about annnyyyything…

 

Yes… of course I didn’t believe you…

 

I know, I know you wanted to prove it to me… heh… remember we both got out of the car to look…

 

You picked up the shell… remember what I said when we saw it?

 

Yeah, heh…that’s right..hehe… eggs from nests don’t have bloody use by stamps on them!

 

Gawd… do you think we could still do it?

 

You know…go necking… in the back seat of the car?

 

Yeah you’re probably right…

 

pfft… yeah family car now…heh…ah the booster seat would be in the way…

 

oh yeah… and your sore back…

 

Hmm? you’re right… my dumb knee…

 

God it was great to be young…

 

What?

 

Oh… yeah that’s right… we didn’t have a king size bed then though…

…did we?

 

 

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“Do one thing every day that scares you.” -Mary Schmich

 

mirrormirrorI don’t wear a lot of make-up but when a friend of mine heard that I remove it every night with *shock* and *horror* just plain-ole-water she looked at me as repulsed with my habits as though I had just told her that last night I’d had group sex on the beach with a bunch of accountants from a two-star-convention. 

Next time I saw her she pressed a lovely sleek tube of famous brand make-up remover into my hands. You simply must use this she told me.

The label touted itself as “Professional formula…Skin tolerance dermatologically tested”. I flipped the lid. It actually smelled quite nice.

That night I gave it a go. Creaming it onto my face and wiping it away with a babies-bottom soft flannel as I had been strictly instructed to do.

Feck me! I thought. It really does get rid of the poly-filla quickly.

I stared into the mirror.

I saw a face shining, almost glowing back at me.

But my elation was shattered, almost immediately. I noticed a wrinkle tiny line at the corner of my eye that I hadn’t ever seen before.

Tears welled and fell stinging on their way out.

I couldn’t believe I’d had such a reaction to such a teeny-tiny-effen-line.

It really was barely noticeable, but perhaps I was being over-sensitive… I had just recently had my thirty-fifth birthday for…well… several years ahem in a row…

The next night I braved the mirror again. Armed with my new make-up remover tube I waxed on and waxed off and then peered into the mirror.

Fockin’ bitch I thought, that line is still there. I tried to hold back the tears but they fell once again, stinging and reddening my eyes.

I went to bed feeling quite sad.

On the third night I had calmed myself, deciding that I didn’t really give-a-toss about a dumb tiny line anyway. I had a steely resolve to embrace that little line as the accumulation of many happy days over the years of my life. It was after-all a *laugh-line*.

I faced the mirror. Swearing to myself the ultimate oath… I would not freakin’ cry this time.

Make-up remover on…gunk off.

I bravely looked in the mirror and all my self-conviction melted away as the tears flowed uncontrollably, stinging my eyes as they plopped down onto my cheeks.

I buried my face in my pillow and went to bed early.

 

I rang my friend the next day,

“Do you like the cream?” she asked excitedly.

“No!” I said emphatically.

“Oh,” she said, a surprised note in her voice “why ever not?”

“Every time I use it my face is so clean that I can see every effen wrinkle I have. THEN I start crying…. uncontrollably. I can’t stand it! I’m disgusting!!!!It’s depressing!!!!”

She was silent for a minute. Then she said,

“Do your eyes go red?”

“Yes! Of course they do…I’m CRYYYYY-ing!”

“Do they sting?”

“Yeeeees!” I whinged “I told you the tears are un-con-troll-able with a capital TROLL. It’s a psychological sign that I hate getting old and I am! I am getting soooo ooooold!”

“Oh…” she said quietly “you’re not crying because you think you’re getting old, you’re crying because I think you might be… erm… allergic to that cream.”

 

The tube of shite is now in the fockin’ bin where it fockin’ belongs.

 

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j0385227Today my kids were lucky enough to be invited to a bowling party hosted by players from Melbourne Victory.

I have to admit that I don’t really follow soccer, so I quickly gave myself a Google education and we headed off -autograph book in hand.

While we were driving to the bowling alley the kids and I ruminated over what the soccer players would be like. 

The conversation went like this:

Mum to son: “I’m sure they’ll be nice. Why don’t you tell them that you played soccer last season for school?”

Son to Mum: “Awww Mum, that’s so not cool to walk up to some random stranger and say stuff like that. Maybe in your day, when you were a hippie, that was okay.”

Grrr. My son needs a history lesson.

I’m not that old. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a hippie. What a fabulous time in history to be alive. But unless my Mother painted a peace sign and flowers on my nappy in late 1969 no one could possibly classify me as being a part of the hippie movement. (A product of the hippie movement possibly, but not a part of it.)

My son’s comment did however make me think about how old I feel.

For the past few weeks I’ve noticed a little intruder on my head. He’s a silver little focker poking his unwanted face through the roots of my dye job.

When I try to get sympathy from my husband he simply points to his own salt and pepper hair and looks at me with an expression that reads: what the fock are you complaining about?  it’s nothing honey- barely noticeable.

I need a more sympathetic audience.

I part my fringe- in indignation, to show my Italian Mother-in-law. She took a close look and said “Mmm yes… you’re getting old.”

It wasn’t the response I was hoping for.

My Father-in-law said “I don’t worry about getting old anymore.” Oh good, I thought, here’s some words of wisdom on facing ageing gracefully. “I don’t worry about getting old anymore because I’m old already. Too late to worry now!”

They laugh their heads off. I don’t think it’s funny.

I don’t feel old at all. But I’ve noticed of late that I have begun to worry about it.

So here’s the big question: What age do you stop worrying about being old and actually start being old?

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Apology to the Garden Hose

In Melbourne Spring arrives in suggestive doses.

A day of sunshine mingles with three or four of chill. Then there’s two days of sunshine in a row- teasing us to prematurely shed our coats and scarves (but not…I repeat not our knee high boots). Like true Melburnians we will then friggin’ curse that left at home jacket and temperamental friggin’ weather until we emerge fully from winter- triumphant at its’ proper passing.

But until then the very earliest signs of Spring mean several things to me.

There is a delicious tingle to the skin- marking the return of the sun.  There is a yearning for short sleeves and fake tan.  There is a craving for salad.  There is an eye brow raised in disdain at all the black in my wardrobe (which incidentally I never do anything about )…and…

There is the dreaded womanly review of the gardening that needs to be undertaken for the sunny season ahead.

It’s not a pleasant task.

Under scornful, almost averted eyes I began my survey yesterday. What I found was a mess- a mess that was only two short months before a neatly tended landscape. Ugh. It’s been a long winter.

In the northern areas what had previously been weeded religiously- showed the effects of my sporadic attempts at upkeep. Freezing mornings and water restrictions haven’t helped- but they are poor excuses for the patchy results. Diagnosis- damage done there is extensive- but fixable.

The case was not as charming upon surveying the entire southern section. Completely left unfettered this region was showing obvious signs of neglect. It had grown amok. I’m fearful that no whipper snipper or weed whacker will now suffice. I will have to seek help from the professionals.

Now before you scoff at me and gloat or email me pics of your perfectly-tended-all-through-winter-driveways please remember that I have been married for over fifteen years, have two kids, run a business (actually two up until earlier this year), study at Uni and wear pants all winter long. Gardening, I’m ashamed to admit, has not been a high priority.  All my Autumn resolutions of ongoing maintenance dimmed with the passing of daylight savings.

I’m not good at keeping promises to myself. But right now I’m feeling more than a bit sorry for the garden hose.

So garden hose here is my apology to you.

I’m sorry.

How you navigated that territory and did your best all through the cold season I’ll never know.

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NewFamousChipsOn the weekend we took a day trip down to Phillip Island. Along the way we stopped for some road-munchies at the local supermarket. I had a bit of a tummy upset so I grabbed some licorice (need I say anymore??!!??).

In the car I snapped open the bag and popped a black stick into dear hubby’s mouth as he drove. He snaffled it quickly and opened up for another. I had an instant flash back to the time of our early dating.

 Back then, as Uni students, we couldn’t afford too much so we’d drive to the closest Red Roo[s]ter and buy a large box of hot chips for around two dollars. We’d then go for a drive and- romantically- I’d hand feed him the greasy-sticks-of-potato-yum. We’d usually end up at Elwood beach to have a cuddle and lick the salt of my fingers- as we watched the moon drift over Port Phillip Bay. 

Those were joyful moments of blossoming infatuation. The biggest issue we faced was the weekly scrambling to find a freebie pass into our fave nightclub-so we could avoid the ten buck entry fee. We weren’t worried about cholesterol, or high blood pressure, or diabetes.

Nearly two decades on- I’m now feeding my husband licorice sticks.

“We’re getting old.” I said. He laughed.

But it’s true. We have swapped dancing at clubs till the wee hours of the morn for tango-ing stray children back to bed after bad dreams.

We have swapped long night time drives to hear the ocean caress the shore for short drives to cart children from basketball- to ballet- to birthday parties- to band practices.

We have swapped holding hands and whispering sweet nothings for messaging each other on Face Book. 

As I chew on this memory-evoking licorice I realize that ‘transitioned’ is probably a more apt description- than ‘swapped’. When did we morph from the free spirited pair into the “eat this it’s good for your bowels” couple?

 

I panic….Could this be the beginnings of a mid-life-crisis?

Then hubby looks at me, I know what he is thinking.

Next weekend we are getting us some red rooster chips.

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