Archive for the ‘mid life crisis’ Category

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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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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