I am wrinkling, greying, thickening and losing my hearing; and I am okay with these changes.
But yesterday Al bought me a cord for my specs. And I accepted it. And my mortality loomed before me in a way it never has before. All those changes to my body are the marks of experience, but a cord for my glasses, well that just seems old.
Showing posts with label myself. Show all posts
Showing posts with label myself. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Cool
I am uncool. It's true, and it's okay. I'm a thirty-six year old mother of two with a house in the suburbs and a generally harried air and (I'm almost sure) the wrong sneakers; I'm not aiming for cool. So I'm not embarrassed to say that I love to visit the Launceston Horticultural Society's flower shows at St Albie's Hall down the road from Brickfields. I love it in a non-ironic, really looking forward to it, I'd like a lamington and a cup of tea kind of a way.
Two dollars gets me an hour to wander between of row after row of colour and form, funny horticultural names, and stalls with seriously cheap perennials. I am always the youngest person in the room, and I win the love of every older person who fears the art and science of flower arranging and growing for exhibition are being lost: I am the future of their passion, and I think I wear that mantle with some grace (but no cool). And lately, I have learned to become a dahlia fancier.
I think dahlias must be one of the most uncool of flowers: all soldier rows and elderly men pre-occupied with size and rigidity. But, check it out:
They're like little manifestations of mathematical formulae. Plus, it's easy to tell a good story in a dahlia show: Devon Carnival, Devon Temptation, Devon Caress, Devon Seduction ... and then the sad ending to the tale: Devon Citation. (Who new Devon was such a hotspot for licentiousness?)
Oh, the youth of today with their hair gel and those night clubs - they don't know where to go for a good time. But I do.
Two dollars gets me an hour to wander between of row after row of colour and form, funny horticultural names, and stalls with seriously cheap perennials. I am always the youngest person in the room, and I win the love of every older person who fears the art and science of flower arranging and growing for exhibition are being lost: I am the future of their passion, and I think I wear that mantle with some grace (but no cool). And lately, I have learned to become a dahlia fancier.
I think dahlias must be one of the most uncool of flowers: all soldier rows and elderly men pre-occupied with size and rigidity. But, check it out:
They're like little manifestations of mathematical formulae. Plus, it's easy to tell a good story in a dahlia show: Devon Carnival, Devon Temptation, Devon Caress, Devon Seduction ... and then the sad ending to the tale: Devon Citation. (Who new Devon was such a hotspot for licentiousness?)
Oh, the youth of today with their hair gel and those night clubs - they don't know where to go for a good time. But I do.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Gardening in the summer
I hate gardening in the summer. Down here it's dry and there's no lushness, no fecundity, and almost no growth. I'm just trying to keep a few things alive: the sad yellow basil, some sad yellow roses, a drooping tomato or two. Even the zucchinis, so overwhelmingly abundant in past years, are struggling to produce. This is a time of getting through, when stasis is a win. And I hate it. The things I love, the planning and planting of seeds, the tending of soil, don't happen as I spend my time watering and mulching and hoping for some rain.
But still, I dug around a dry bed of potato plants, put in when things were damp, and there, sitting just under the soil, were rosy Desirees, quietly waiting. Now, there's an allegory that's difficult to miss.
A good thing, too, as things here are at a tipping point. I have been smashed by a tsunami at work. I am the only one left standing as the senior team members are struck down by illness and bereavement. Not so long ago I was the junior person and now I am the senior, with all of the admin. and negotiations and constant emails and phone calls that entails. My boss has been divine in giving me actual, useful support and absolute flexibility in my working hours. But of course, as everyone in an office knows, each email, each phone call, takes a bite out of the time we use for something else. And I suspect I am like most of the working population, in that the something elses that are whittled away are the something elses that keep me half-way healthy and sane. Indeed, the something elses are what fill the well so that I can do my job.
I know this, I talk about this with every other mother I know. I know the magic list: yoga; walking in the morning; 8 hours sleep; no alcohol, sugar or junk food; something creative outside of work; some time with friends; some time by myself. But that list once again sits there unacknowledged and unchecked and I wonder why I'm doing this to myself yet again. I know the answer: socialisation, gender identity, organisational structures, psychological make-up; but my question is, why do I find myself asking the question when I know that answer? Theory alone won't bring about praxis.
So I am writing this down, for me, because when I put something in words it's real to me: I am doing my stuff first. Each morning I am playing with words, each evening I am pottering with the things that matter to me. Each day I am reminding myself that I am not a heart surgeon, nor a U.N. negotiator, nor a rescue worker; no one will die if I do things on my terms and at my pace.
This is an old, old song I am singing here, and I hope that one day, I'll remember the words and stay in tune.
But still, I dug around a dry bed of potato plants, put in when things were damp, and there, sitting just under the soil, were rosy Desirees, quietly waiting. Now, there's an allegory that's difficult to miss.
A good thing, too, as things here are at a tipping point. I have been smashed by a tsunami at work. I am the only one left standing as the senior team members are struck down by illness and bereavement. Not so long ago I was the junior person and now I am the senior, with all of the admin. and negotiations and constant emails and phone calls that entails. My boss has been divine in giving me actual, useful support and absolute flexibility in my working hours. But of course, as everyone in an office knows, each email, each phone call, takes a bite out of the time we use for something else. And I suspect I am like most of the working population, in that the something elses that are whittled away are the something elses that keep me half-way healthy and sane. Indeed, the something elses are what fill the well so that I can do my job.
I know this, I talk about this with every other mother I know. I know the magic list: yoga; walking in the morning; 8 hours sleep; no alcohol, sugar or junk food; something creative outside of work; some time with friends; some time by myself. But that list once again sits there unacknowledged and unchecked and I wonder why I'm doing this to myself yet again. I know the answer: socialisation, gender identity, organisational structures, psychological make-up; but my question is, why do I find myself asking the question when I know that answer? Theory alone won't bring about praxis.
So I am writing this down, for me, because when I put something in words it's real to me: I am doing my stuff first. Each morning I am playing with words, each evening I am pottering with the things that matter to me. Each day I am reminding myself that I am not a heart surgeon, nor a U.N. negotiator, nor a rescue worker; no one will die if I do things on my terms and at my pace.
This is an old, old song I am singing here, and I hope that one day, I'll remember the words and stay in tune.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Today, the girls were at their carer's house and I worked from home. At lunch, Al came by and we went for a short walk, just around the corner and up a lane, so that I could show him a pink room in a house. We held hands and my body remembered itself at twenty-seven, in those lonely and confusing basil-scented days (were my twenties spent in gardens, lonely and confused?): no kids in arms and on shoulders, no prams and strollers, no toys that were Absolutely Necessary when we started out and discarded twenty metres down the road, no pulling dogs, no nappy bags, no work bags, no bus-is-leaving-in-ten-minutes-and-I-think-I-can-make-it-if-I-walk-faster
-but-not-too-fast-there's-nothing-sadder-than-running-for-the-bus-and-
just-missing-it-all-those-people-staring-at-your-sad-mistimed-self, no deadlinedeadlinedeadline, not even an ipod. I felt so light, I was dizzy.
Three hours later I pushed the bloody big pram, bane of my existence, large as a hay cart and just about as manoeuvrable, back home from the carers, laden down with: 2x screaming kids (reasons: 'cold feet', 'tired arm' and 'want yoghurt', and unspecified); 1x nappy bag filled with muddy clothes; 3x socks + 2x pairs of gum boots; 2x under-clothed baby dolls; 2x tupperware containers with half-eaten lunches; 1x plastic bag holding 1x tub Nuttlex and 1x carton soy milk; 1x over-eager labradoodle and 1x lagging greyhound. Two hundred and seventy-three strange and lovely years have passed since my twenties, and I'm not sorry about it, not a bit.
-but-not-too-fast-there's-nothing-sadder-than-running-for-the-bus-and-
just-missing-it-all-those-people-staring-at-your-sad-mistimed-self, no deadlinedeadlinedeadline, not even an ipod. I felt so light, I was dizzy.
Three hours later I pushed the bloody big pram, bane of my existence, large as a hay cart and just about as manoeuvrable, back home from the carers, laden down with: 2x screaming kids (reasons: 'cold feet', 'tired arm' and 'want yoghurt', and unspecified); 1x nappy bag filled with muddy clothes; 3x socks + 2x pairs of gum boots; 2x under-clothed baby dolls; 2x tupperware containers with half-eaten lunches; 1x plastic bag holding 1x tub Nuttlex and 1x carton soy milk; 1x over-eager labradoodle and 1x lagging greyhound. Two hundred and seventy-three strange and lovely years have passed since my twenties, and I'm not sorry about it, not a bit.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
I think it might be Tuesday
Down here, there's relief in the air: it's getting colder, and the ground is wet from rain these past days. The dark drops quickly and unexpectedly soon after the girls are in bed. Some days there are spaces when Lu and Nell play together and I can sit and stare into the middle distance or read or play on the internet. I've found a good yoga teacher. I've planted lots of freesias and very few broad beans; the bulbs from last year are already rising up under the apple tree with no effort on my part. It's been suggested it's time to start thinking about promotion at work.
Last night I walked across the park in the dusk, feeling pretty and singing out loud to The Church and The Triffids. I went out to dinner with women who have appeared rather suddenly in my life and who seem to like me. We ate Thai and drank wine and talked and laughed. I felt like someone resembling myself.
I used to share an office with a woman who was mad - sweet in many ways but really quite mad. (It wasn't a friendship that ended well.) When I was in a bad patch she told me: 'It can all be different on Tuesday'. In the dark times these past eighteen months it's been hard to believe that life could be anything other than what it is; time and joy were suspended. But things change, sometimes creeping towards difference and sometimes switching so quickly a person can lose their bearings. It can be hard on Monday night and happy by Tuesday noon. Joy cometh in the morning.
There have been many, many times these past months when I've believed I'd only ever remember happiness, that I wouldn't live in it again. But this Sunday night I think that maybe (knock wood, fingers crossed, God willing) the longed for Tuesday might have finally dawned. I worry that in writing this my Tuesday will slip away (I don't walk under ladders either, and freeze when a mirror cracks) but Crazy Kate gave me a gift when she said it to me, and without sounding too awfully, painfully pretentious and oracular I just wanted re-state that hope for someone else:
It can all be different on Tuesday.
Last night I walked across the park in the dusk, feeling pretty and singing out loud to The Church and The Triffids. I went out to dinner with women who have appeared rather suddenly in my life and who seem to like me. We ate Thai and drank wine and talked and laughed. I felt like someone resembling myself.
I used to share an office with a woman who was mad - sweet in many ways but really quite mad. (It wasn't a friendship that ended well.) When I was in a bad patch she told me: 'It can all be different on Tuesday'. In the dark times these past eighteen months it's been hard to believe that life could be anything other than what it is; time and joy were suspended. But things change, sometimes creeping towards difference and sometimes switching so quickly a person can lose their bearings. It can be hard on Monday night and happy by Tuesday noon. Joy cometh in the morning.
There have been many, many times these past months when I've believed I'd only ever remember happiness, that I wouldn't live in it again. But this Sunday night I think that maybe (knock wood, fingers crossed, God willing) the longed for Tuesday might have finally dawned. I worry that in writing this my Tuesday will slip away (I don't walk under ladders either, and freeze when a mirror cracks) but Crazy Kate gave me a gift when she said it to me, and without sounding too awfully, painfully pretentious and oracular I just wanted re-state that hope for someone else:
It can all be different on Tuesday.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Loneliness
I am lonely. I have friends - people I love passionately - scattered about the place but down here there's no-one I can casually call up to go and see a movie. There's no-one in my life who fully appreciates my particular kind of humour, no-one who is happy to talk about bugs and compost and how best to keep ivy under control. Since we've moved down to Tasmania, almost five years ago now, there have been people we've socialised with but we've found no-one with whom it is easy and funny and no trouble at all.
I am lonely. I don't think that's a sentence uttered aloud very often; there's something shameful about it. As a kid, 'Nigel (no friends)' was one of the really mean names in the arsenal of bullies. As a feminist I'm quite comfortable talking about the ways in which social structures marginalise and alienate mothers but those processes aren't personal, even if they feel that way at times. And the moral indignation at that kind of injustice can carry me through bad days. But there's something pathetic about asking 'Is it me?', thinking that maybe my empty Friday nights (and Saturday nights, and Sunday nights, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights) are not because of our stage in life or because it's always hard to meet people when you move to a small town, but because people just don't like me very much. That stings.
The thing I loved most about Canberra was being with my friends. I hung out with people who I hadn't seen for three or so years but as soon as we saw each other the words spilled over without stopping. I was giddy with the conversation. Are Seville oranges frost hardy?, what various ex-boyfriends are doing now, is X about to have a baby?, how to cook a great risotto, curating exhibitions in the War Memorial, the tensions between the childless and parents in workplaces, career prospects in the public service, birth stories, how to run a vineyard, and a hundred and two other topics boring to almost everyone but me and my friends. I loved it.
I miss the ease and fun of those people, but more, I miss the self I am with my friends. That person is witty and never tongue tied, is happy to confide her life and her plans, she doesn't have to pretend to be interested in order to be interesting. Self-absorbed as I am, I love my friends because of who they are, sure, but also because of who I become when I'm with them. They reflect an image of my self that is far more fabulous than I could ever be on my own.
I am lonely. I don't think that's a sentence uttered aloud very often; there's something shameful about it. As a kid, 'Nigel (no friends)' was one of the really mean names in the arsenal of bullies. As a feminist I'm quite comfortable talking about the ways in which social structures marginalise and alienate mothers but those processes aren't personal, even if they feel that way at times. And the moral indignation at that kind of injustice can carry me through bad days. But there's something pathetic about asking 'Is it me?', thinking that maybe my empty Friday nights (and Saturday nights, and Sunday nights, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights) are not because of our stage in life or because it's always hard to meet people when you move to a small town, but because people just don't like me very much. That stings.
The thing I loved most about Canberra was being with my friends. I hung out with people who I hadn't seen for three or so years but as soon as we saw each other the words spilled over without stopping. I was giddy with the conversation. Are Seville oranges frost hardy?, what various ex-boyfriends are doing now, is X about to have a baby?, how to cook a great risotto, curating exhibitions in the War Memorial, the tensions between the childless and parents in workplaces, career prospects in the public service, birth stories, how to run a vineyard, and a hundred and two other topics boring to almost everyone but me and my friends. I loved it.
I miss the ease and fun of those people, but more, I miss the self I am with my friends. That person is witty and never tongue tied, is happy to confide her life and her plans, she doesn't have to pretend to be interested in order to be interesting. Self-absorbed as I am, I love my friends because of who they are, sure, but also because of who I become when I'm with them. They reflect an image of my self that is far more fabulous than I could ever be on my own.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Circling out
Once upon a time, when I read things that were neither directly related to work nor an Agatha Christie novel I'd read forty times before, a friend gave me an article on the geographies of pregnancy. It described the ways in which pregnant women's movements are gradually constrained, partly through the physical difficulties of getting around but also through the social expectations attached to being 'careful' while carrying a baby. I never checked out if there was a sequel. There should be, because however small my life's radius when I was pregnant, it was large compared to what it became with two kids.
Looking back this last year has been hard. When I told me friend Anthony I was having another baby, that I would have two under two he laughed (a little grimly) and told me it would be the hardest year I'd ever had. Which is kind of like saying that labour hurts: it's true enough but no one really believes it will happen that way for them. And anyway, hard - like hurt - isn't something you can describe: happens to you and no words can make it real for others. So Anthony, thanks for the head's up but it wasn't much help.
Hard. Tiring. Confusing. Hurtful. Scary. And inward. I had no idea how inward I had become. I'm a homebody at heart, and I travel mainly for work or because it's good for me to broaden my experience, and not so much because I really enjoy trying to read a timetable in Thai or order a beer in German ('Ein Bier, bitte' - it's not actually too hard). But my movements had fallen into ruts, ones that you can see if you look closely in the right streets. Home - bus - work; the same path each day. Veggie store - deli - Coles; the same path each week. Home - the area; home - the op shops. Not much else as happened. It's because we are tired, and our kids aren't keen on car travel, and we've been trying to establish their sleep patterns, and there's not a lot of time to go anyway in between work and garden and keeping the home fires burning.
But mainly my inwardness comes because motherhood has made me raw. It's peeled away my exo-skeleton of distance and cynicism. I've spent the last year dodging bad news and bad scenes. I read two pages of Dave Egger's book on the Sudanese lost boys and had to leave the shop in tears; I don't watch anything that doesn't have Will Ferrell in it because it will be too emotionally draining. I've ducked friends and family; don't want to speak on the phone; never read the paper or watch the news. I've hunkered this last year, just getting through. Having kids has attached me to the world and its big and little events, and it's made me shy away from those things. I understand why animals crawl away to a dark place when they are hurt or sick - that vulnerability can only be countered through a safe quiet place in which to regain some confidence and balance.
But now, it seems we are beginning to emerge. It's a shock to realise and hard to believe. But I am reading books, lots of them, and have even agreed in principle to watch something that's not from the Scrubs box sets that have filled my nights these past twelve months. And I'm beginning to travel, nowhere glamorous or paricularly fun, but going to places by myself, for work, sure, but with time to fill with things I might like to do, and no kids to think of while I do it. I'm beginning to recognise myself again, even if I still can't describe who that self is. It's a cliche but I feel like I'm opening up again. I'm stretching out of the foetal position in which I've been curled all this past year, beginning to walk in wider circles, and sometimes even breaking the circle. My maps are getting a little bigger again.
I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Just to acknowledge to myself, I guess, that things change, and that Tuesday can be very different from the Sunday before, and this January is not the same as the very dark August, September, October I saw last year.
Anthony told me things would change. But that's kind of like telling someone that labour hurts: it's true enough but no one really believes it will happen that way for them. And anyway, change - like hurt - isn't something you can describe: it just happens to you and no words can make it real for others. But it's very real for myself.
Looking back this last year has been hard. When I told me friend Anthony I was having another baby, that I would have two under two he laughed (a little grimly) and told me it would be the hardest year I'd ever had. Which is kind of like saying that labour hurts: it's true enough but no one really believes it will happen that way for them. And anyway, hard - like hurt - isn't something you can describe: happens to you and no words can make it real for others. So Anthony, thanks for the head's up but it wasn't much help.
Hard. Tiring. Confusing. Hurtful. Scary. And inward. I had no idea how inward I had become. I'm a homebody at heart, and I travel mainly for work or because it's good for me to broaden my experience, and not so much because I really enjoy trying to read a timetable in Thai or order a beer in German ('Ein Bier, bitte' - it's not actually too hard). But my movements had fallen into ruts, ones that you can see if you look closely in the right streets. Home - bus - work; the same path each day. Veggie store - deli - Coles; the same path each week. Home - the area; home - the op shops. Not much else as happened. It's because we are tired, and our kids aren't keen on car travel, and we've been trying to establish their sleep patterns, and there's not a lot of time to go anyway in between work and garden and keeping the home fires burning.
But mainly my inwardness comes because motherhood has made me raw. It's peeled away my exo-skeleton of distance and cynicism. I've spent the last year dodging bad news and bad scenes. I read two pages of Dave Egger's book on the Sudanese lost boys and had to leave the shop in tears; I don't watch anything that doesn't have Will Ferrell in it because it will be too emotionally draining. I've ducked friends and family; don't want to speak on the phone; never read the paper or watch the news. I've hunkered this last year, just getting through. Having kids has attached me to the world and its big and little events, and it's made me shy away from those things. I understand why animals crawl away to a dark place when they are hurt or sick - that vulnerability can only be countered through a safe quiet place in which to regain some confidence and balance.
But now, it seems we are beginning to emerge. It's a shock to realise and hard to believe. But I am reading books, lots of them, and have even agreed in principle to watch something that's not from the Scrubs box sets that have filled my nights these past twelve months. And I'm beginning to travel, nowhere glamorous or paricularly fun, but going to places by myself, for work, sure, but with time to fill with things I might like to do, and no kids to think of while I do it. I'm beginning to recognise myself again, even if I still can't describe who that self is. It's a cliche but I feel like I'm opening up again. I'm stretching out of the foetal position in which I've been curled all this past year, beginning to walk in wider circles, and sometimes even breaking the circle. My maps are getting a little bigger again.
I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Just to acknowledge to myself, I guess, that things change, and that Tuesday can be very different from the Sunday before, and this January is not the same as the very dark August, September, October I saw last year.
Anthony told me things would change. But that's kind of like telling someone that labour hurts: it's true enough but no one really believes it will happen that way for them. And anyway, change - like hurt - isn't something you can describe: it just happens to you and no words can make it real for others. But it's very real for myself.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Mutalabis
Rosa mutabalisJust recently there have been days when I almost recognise myself. I'm starting to travel a little for work, I'm wearing smart trousers and nice shoes, flicking through powerpoint slides and looking over at people listen to what I say, as if I might know what I'm talking about (crazy!). I've started to stay in hotels in different cities. I've started to talk to important people on teleconferences. These are echoes of an older me who had drive and ambition and a fair(-ish) idea of what I wanted in life. But it's a shell, I'm only passing - all the constituent bits are there, but not the heart, not the soul.
****
Today I was fitted for new bras - my breast are not, it seems, returning to what they once were - and I looked in the mirror and was shocked at the body I saw. I've had more than my fair share of body issues back in the day but I don't hate my body anymore. But ... I'm not quite sure this is my body. It doesn't look familiar. I am wearing the clothes from my sprog free days but they don't fit the way they once did. The jeans look okay, the shirts cover the relevant bits without straining too hard but there's something slightly off.
****
I used to practice yoga a lot. A lot. An hour and half of Ashtanga seven days a week. It was utterly part of who I was. I've started back again, just twice a week, and it's amazing what my body remembers, even after such a long break. Sometimes my body, and my self, feel the way they used to. And then we move into shoulder stand and I look up and see my belly and I'm pretty sure someone is playing tricks on me with a crazy mirror.
This motherhood gig is a tricky thing. I can't got back, don't want to go back, but how on earth do I find a way forward?
I used to think maybe motherhood was like a piece of clothing, something I pulled on at the relevant time (great jeans and a funky little shirt, perhaps, casual and fabulous) and shrugged off at other times (business attire for the day; something sexy and elegant for when I became an adult after the girls had gone to bed). But it's not that easy. So then I thought, maybe motherhood is like a jumper that I knit from an old pattern someone passed on to me, using bits of wool from my grandmother's scrapbag in the hallway cupboard. Except it turns out the pattern is kind of old fashioned, and some of it is missing and anyway, I can't knit. And I don't think the answer lies in pulling something on, something exernal to me. I'm trying to recover that core of me, the part that remains the truth even as roles and bodies and ambitions change, but it's hard to remember what that was, hard to figure out where to look for it, hard to believe I ever had that core in the first place.
Tricky, tricky, tricky.
****
Rosa mutabalis is free flowering, with flowers changing from deep pink to pale yellow and apricot. It grows tall and it's tough, surviving through drought and neglect, but the flowers look like silk. I'm not sure what all this means for me, because I'm tired and sad and my thinking is fuzzy, but there's something about that rose that I cling to on bad days, something that makes me know things will change again and again and again, and that things will be easier one day soon.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Glamour
Back in the day, when I was young and pretty, my friend KJ and her boyfriend Daz would call me Margot; they styled themselves as Barbara and Tom. For those of you who did not grow up in rural Victoria in the early 80s with only the ABC, this is a reference to The Good Life. The show was about an executive and his wife who turned their back on a consumption society to become self-sufficient and cash free on their suburban block. They are watched, disapprovingly, by their good friends, the uptight, upright Jerry and Margot.
(from nostalgia central : www.nostalgiacentral.com/ tv/comedy/goodlife.htm)
I wasn't unhappy with this reference - I was, perhpas, a little prim and snooty, and was dating a guy with a (in hindsight, surely fake) British accent. Margot did garden but it was a pruning roses type of gardening, in big hats and gloves, with drinks after on the terrace.
This morning, I spent a couple of hours shovelling horse manure, utterly happy because it was free and I was out in the garden. Margot no more. Oh, how things change.
*****
Even in my new Barbara life, I cling to the belief that I'm not competely scruffy. I make no pretensions to beauty but hope I may have a quirky elegance, an understated style that may not be apparent on first sight but reveals itself over time. One must have one's fantasies, after all.
Talking it over, Al and I realised Lu is happiest and most relaxed when she is with me by herself. We're not sure if this is because she misses me when I'm at work or if she's having problems adjusting to Nell. So we're going to make time for special mother-Lulu outings. Yesterday morning we went to the cafe for baby latte and brownie and some book reading, walked into town for the ceremonial buying of Big Girl Pants, and went on to get our hair cut together (I know, she's two and it sounds like I'm spending time with a teenager). In between picking up some Dorothy Dinosaur and Thomas the Tank Engine underwear and the stylist, I popped in to the sushi bar and then dropped by the poshest shop in town, where handbags cost hundreds of dollars and I don't dare touch a thing. I had given Lu one of those little platic fish full of soy to suck and turned around to see her spread eagled on the floor, face down. She was spitting out the soy on to the floor and then licking it up again. All my fantasies of funky Mummy-hood vanished like smoke in the air (or spit on a highly polished, industrial chic floor).
Out on the street Lu dropped the rest of her brownie and then picked it up and ate it. I was going to stop her but figured the dirt on the soles of the hoi polloi is no more nasty than that on the soles of the rich, and so really, the damage had been done.
(from nostalgia central : www.nostalgiacentral.com/ tv/comedy/goodlife.htm)I wasn't unhappy with this reference - I was, perhpas, a little prim and snooty, and was dating a guy with a (in hindsight, surely fake) British accent. Margot did garden but it was a pruning roses type of gardening, in big hats and gloves, with drinks after on the terrace.
This morning, I spent a couple of hours shovelling horse manure, utterly happy because it was free and I was out in the garden. Margot no more. Oh, how things change.
*****
Even in my new Barbara life, I cling to the belief that I'm not competely scruffy. I make no pretensions to beauty but hope I may have a quirky elegance, an understated style that may not be apparent on first sight but reveals itself over time. One must have one's fantasies, after all.
Talking it over, Al and I realised Lu is happiest and most relaxed when she is with me by herself. We're not sure if this is because she misses me when I'm at work or if she's having problems adjusting to Nell. So we're going to make time for special mother-Lulu outings. Yesterday morning we went to the cafe for baby latte and brownie and some book reading, walked into town for the ceremonial buying of Big Girl Pants, and went on to get our hair cut together (I know, she's two and it sounds like I'm spending time with a teenager). In between picking up some Dorothy Dinosaur and Thomas the Tank Engine underwear and the stylist, I popped in to the sushi bar and then dropped by the poshest shop in town, where handbags cost hundreds of dollars and I don't dare touch a thing. I had given Lu one of those little platic fish full of soy to suck and turned around to see her spread eagled on the floor, face down. She was spitting out the soy on to the floor and then licking it up again. All my fantasies of funky Mummy-hood vanished like smoke in the air (or spit on a highly polished, industrial chic floor).
Out on the street Lu dropped the rest of her brownie and then picked it up and ate it. I was going to stop her but figured the dirt on the soles of the hoi polloi is no more nasty than that on the soles of the rich, and so really, the damage had been done.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Being frugal in a time of abundance
Quite some time ago, the lovely Kez nominated me for a Frugal Subversive Award. I haven't really mentioned it due to one thing (illness) and another (previously mentioned project taking up loads of time and energy) but mainly because I've been pondering the meaning of 'frugal' and whether or not it applies to me. And I'm still not sure.
My much loved Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases puts 'frugal' in with economy, thrift, prudence, care, husbandry, good housewifery, savingness, keep within compass. The word suggests a respect of limits rather than a penny pinching love of money. Current Australian debt levels suggest there's not a lot of frugal in our lives, even when high house prices are accounted for. And the idea that we limit our choices out of respect for future generations or other species or people still seems embarassingly worthy to many. I think when people are frugal, they are swimming against the current.
It's an interesting phenomenon, this frugal cool I see on many of the blog sites I visit. I like it, I like reading about all the things people do in their home, and why they do them. But I've never really considered myself frugal. Heaven knows, almost all of the money I earned in my 20s went on booze and my back. More recently, Al and I have had to be careful with money: a mortgage, then a bigger mortgage, then a child, then a drop to one income, then another child, then structural problems with the house, have meant we've always been teetering on the brink of more money going out than coming in. We were very careful with money, and really worried, but I never stopped thinking, "I'll be okay". And sure enough, the happy intersection of a pay rise, a tax cut (but I'm still not voting for you, John), and paying off HECS and my supplement loan has meant our finances have turned a corner. We're very, very lucky.
I do lots of things that look like frugality: My clothes - and those of the Al and the girls - are mostly from op shops, as are my furniture and kitchen stuff. I grow our vegetables and we save a lot of money this way. We walk. But these are choices that reflect a whole set of preferences unrelated to saving money or respecting limits: I like bargains, I like gardening, I like to walk. Mostly, the things I do are the things I want to do. There are other reasons: I care about our health and the environment, and I come from a frugal home, but really, I find the things I do fun.
I am frugal but I am not poor.
A couple of days ago, while waiting for the bus, I looked into the window of a sophisticated clothing store and saw a really lovely shirt. I thought, "I'll go get that tomorrow afternoon". And I did. It cost a lot, it looks great on me. Buying it has been a treat - I'm not one to buy expensive clothes - but it won't break the bank, it won't even break the budget. Yesterday, I bought an imported home style magazine, it cost a lot of money. This is not something I often do - I usually borrow mags from the library - but it's pleasant to sit on the couch at the end of the week and mindlessly stare at beautiful things.
I am frugal and I am not poor.
One of my favourite books is called Nickel and Dimed, by Barbara Ehrenreich. In it, she works a series of working class jobs (waitress, cleaner, Walmart assistant) and tries to live on the wages she earns. What stayed with me is this: the financially sensible decisions, the things that save money, actually require an already existing set of resources, notably time, money and health. Leasing a house with a kitchen is a cheaper option than living in a hotel and eating take away, but it's an option that requires money for a deposit and time to find a place.
It's easy being frugal when it doesn't really count. I think of my vegetable garden: the seeds don't cost much compared to those bags of lettuce in the store, it's true, but if I added the constant inputs of organic material, the driving to get the free manure, and my time (if I charged out at my going rate), my home grown greensare actually pretty expensive. In my job I sit at a desk all day, thinking thoughts, bossing people around and writing. Coming home and getting into the garden is a nice change; things might be very different if I was standing on my feet at a check out, or lugging heavy loads. Wearing second hand clothes is easy enough when I know I can afford the flash ones; it was much harder to do so when I had no choice, when those clothes reflected my financial status rather than a lazy rainy Saturday morning trawling the opshops for bargains. In our society, if you are poor you are a loser or lazy, and it's hard to advertise that.
I am frugal because I am not poor.
******
After I strolled away from the sophisticated clothing store, I walked past the headlines outside the newsagent. The women's magazines were gleefully speculating on Owen Wilson, that Hollywood guy who may have tried to kill himself; imagine your pain as the entertainment of others (with exclusive pics!). The local newspaper reported on a woman who in desparation had left her autistic teenage son with health authorities and just walked out, unable to cope and getting no assistance; imagine such despair. At work I spoke to a mother whose child goes to Lucy's erstwhile child care centre. She's a refugee from Sudan, and she wants to bring her family over, the government is not so keen on the idea; imagine, imagine, imagine. By 7.25 am I felt very sad.
I think it's a world of abundance, sure, but there's a parsimony, an illiberality, a niggardliness, a stinginess, a shabbiness and a miserliness in our society when it comes to an active love and concern for others. We are, according to Roget's, stopping one hole in a sieve.
My much loved Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases puts 'frugal' in with economy, thrift, prudence, care, husbandry, good housewifery, savingness, keep within compass. The word suggests a respect of limits rather than a penny pinching love of money. Current Australian debt levels suggest there's not a lot of frugal in our lives, even when high house prices are accounted for. And the idea that we limit our choices out of respect for future generations or other species or people still seems embarassingly worthy to many. I think when people are frugal, they are swimming against the current.
It's an interesting phenomenon, this frugal cool I see on many of the blog sites I visit. I like it, I like reading about all the things people do in their home, and why they do them. But I've never really considered myself frugal. Heaven knows, almost all of the money I earned in my 20s went on booze and my back. More recently, Al and I have had to be careful with money: a mortgage, then a bigger mortgage, then a child, then a drop to one income, then another child, then structural problems with the house, have meant we've always been teetering on the brink of more money going out than coming in. We were very careful with money, and really worried, but I never stopped thinking, "I'll be okay". And sure enough, the happy intersection of a pay rise, a tax cut (but I'm still not voting for you, John), and paying off HECS and my supplement loan has meant our finances have turned a corner. We're very, very lucky.
I do lots of things that look like frugality: My clothes - and those of the Al and the girls - are mostly from op shops, as are my furniture and kitchen stuff. I grow our vegetables and we save a lot of money this way. We walk. But these are choices that reflect a whole set of preferences unrelated to saving money or respecting limits: I like bargains, I like gardening, I like to walk. Mostly, the things I do are the things I want to do. There are other reasons: I care about our health and the environment, and I come from a frugal home, but really, I find the things I do fun.
I am frugal but I am not poor.
A couple of days ago, while waiting for the bus, I looked into the window of a sophisticated clothing store and saw a really lovely shirt. I thought, "I'll go get that tomorrow afternoon". And I did. It cost a lot, it looks great on me. Buying it has been a treat - I'm not one to buy expensive clothes - but it won't break the bank, it won't even break the budget. Yesterday, I bought an imported home style magazine, it cost a lot of money. This is not something I often do - I usually borrow mags from the library - but it's pleasant to sit on the couch at the end of the week and mindlessly stare at beautiful things.
I am frugal and I am not poor.
One of my favourite books is called Nickel and Dimed, by Barbara Ehrenreich. In it, she works a series of working class jobs (waitress, cleaner, Walmart assistant) and tries to live on the wages she earns. What stayed with me is this: the financially sensible decisions, the things that save money, actually require an already existing set of resources, notably time, money and health. Leasing a house with a kitchen is a cheaper option than living in a hotel and eating take away, but it's an option that requires money for a deposit and time to find a place.
It's easy being frugal when it doesn't really count. I think of my vegetable garden: the seeds don't cost much compared to those bags of lettuce in the store, it's true, but if I added the constant inputs of organic material, the driving to get the free manure, and my time (if I charged out at my going rate), my home grown greensare actually pretty expensive. In my job I sit at a desk all day, thinking thoughts, bossing people around and writing. Coming home and getting into the garden is a nice change; things might be very different if I was standing on my feet at a check out, or lugging heavy loads. Wearing second hand clothes is easy enough when I know I can afford the flash ones; it was much harder to do so when I had no choice, when those clothes reflected my financial status rather than a lazy rainy Saturday morning trawling the opshops for bargains. In our society, if you are poor you are a loser or lazy, and it's hard to advertise that.
I am frugal because I am not poor.
******
After I strolled away from the sophisticated clothing store, I walked past the headlines outside the newsagent. The women's magazines were gleefully speculating on Owen Wilson, that Hollywood guy who may have tried to kill himself; imagine your pain as the entertainment of others (with exclusive pics!). The local newspaper reported on a woman who in desparation had left her autistic teenage son with health authorities and just walked out, unable to cope and getting no assistance; imagine such despair. At work I spoke to a mother whose child goes to Lucy's erstwhile child care centre. She's a refugee from Sudan, and she wants to bring her family over, the government is not so keen on the idea; imagine, imagine, imagine. By 7.25 am I felt very sad.
I think it's a world of abundance, sure, but there's a parsimony, an illiberality, a niggardliness, a stinginess, a shabbiness and a miserliness in our society when it comes to an active love and concern for others. We are, according to Roget's, stopping one hole in a sieve.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Writing 8 things about me instead of 8 things about any number of work related issues
The strong and thoughtful Em has tagged me to do this 8 things meme. Really, I should be finishing a report. editing papers, writing presentations, blah, blah, blah but I'm going to give myself a break and do this. I'm at the computer so its practically like work isn't it? This is how it goes:
A. Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves.
B. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed.
C. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
Here goes:
1. I do a lot of writing for my work and I don't enjoy it. I have to fit templates, use institutional language and second guess reviewers and others who say 'yes' or 'no' to what I think and write. People often comment I am overly wordy and meandering, which I consider to be strengths, but apparently are not.
2. My middle name is Agnes, after my paternal grandmother and maternal great grandmother. I was teased mercilessly about this name when I was in primary school - indeed, the teasing was lead by my fourth grade teacher, Mr Groves - and I hated it. Now I'm proud to have such a link with two strong women, and have handed it down to my first daughter as her middle name.
3. I really wish I had never gone out with my high school boyfriend. I adored him at the time, I guess, but it was a very dodgy relationship, very much in the soapie young love mold, and now, as my Grammy says, I wouldn't pee on him if he were on fire.
4. I like to wear matching bra and panties. I feel slightly scrappy if I don't.
5. My favourite garden was built on the balcony of my friend Tambo's house in Elizabeth St in Toowong, in Brisbane. Everything was in pots; it was lush and beautiful and fruitful. I have a much, much, much larger garden but I still strive for that feeling of generosity and elegance Tambo creates wherever she goes.
6. I hate asking people for any kind of a favour: lifts home, babysitting, feeding the chooks, borrowing a pen, anything big or small. I quail a little inside when I have to rely on someone else.
7. None of my very dear friends live in the same town as me. I really miss being part of their daily lives: seeing their children, eating meals together, sitting around drinking and talk, talk, talking.
8. One of my dearest and staunchest friends gave me Candide during a very bad time in my life. In the front he wrote: 'May you find peace in your garden'. I always do, and each time I stand there, feeling happy and blessed, I think of him. It's a really nice way to keep someone in my mind.
I'm working at home on my Mac, which doesn't obviously let me create weblinks in the text, so I'll list the people I want to tag and link into them tomorrow when I'm back at the office PC. So, keeping in mind point 6, I tag six people who always have something interesting to say about life and themselves: Victoriae, Tamsin, Kate, Janet, Nutmeg, Jenny Wren. Not eight, thereby breaking the rules (oh dear) but I really feel a bit uncomfortable asking people to tell me about themselves when I only lurk about their sites (again, point 6!).
Back to the short word, short sentence and the point: blah, blah,blah.
A. Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves.
B. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed.
C. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
Here goes:
1. I do a lot of writing for my work and I don't enjoy it. I have to fit templates, use institutional language and second guess reviewers and others who say 'yes' or 'no' to what I think and write. People often comment I am overly wordy and meandering, which I consider to be strengths, but apparently are not.
2. My middle name is Agnes, after my paternal grandmother and maternal great grandmother. I was teased mercilessly about this name when I was in primary school - indeed, the teasing was lead by my fourth grade teacher, Mr Groves - and I hated it. Now I'm proud to have such a link with two strong women, and have handed it down to my first daughter as her middle name.
3. I really wish I had never gone out with my high school boyfriend. I adored him at the time, I guess, but it was a very dodgy relationship, very much in the soapie young love mold, and now, as my Grammy says, I wouldn't pee on him if he were on fire.
4. I like to wear matching bra and panties. I feel slightly scrappy if I don't.
5. My favourite garden was built on the balcony of my friend Tambo's house in Elizabeth St in Toowong, in Brisbane. Everything was in pots; it was lush and beautiful and fruitful. I have a much, much, much larger garden but I still strive for that feeling of generosity and elegance Tambo creates wherever she goes.
6. I hate asking people for any kind of a favour: lifts home, babysitting, feeding the chooks, borrowing a pen, anything big or small. I quail a little inside when I have to rely on someone else.
7. None of my very dear friends live in the same town as me. I really miss being part of their daily lives: seeing their children, eating meals together, sitting around drinking and talk, talk, talking.
8. One of my dearest and staunchest friends gave me Candide during a very bad time in my life. In the front he wrote: 'May you find peace in your garden'. I always do, and each time I stand there, feeling happy and blessed, I think of him. It's a really nice way to keep someone in my mind.
I'm working at home on my Mac, which doesn't obviously let me create weblinks in the text, so I'll list the people I want to tag and link into them tomorrow when I'm back at the office PC. So, keeping in mind point 6, I tag six people who always have something interesting to say about life and themselves: Victoriae, Tamsin, Kate, Janet, Nutmeg, Jenny Wren. Not eight, thereby breaking the rules (oh dear) but I really feel a bit uncomfortable asking people to tell me about themselves when I only lurk about their sites (again, point 6!).
Back to the short word, short sentence and the point: blah, blah,blah.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Meme
Kate from Our Red House has tagged me for the 5 things meme. I'm sitting here killing time at 5.45 in the morning, wondering why when I've got the chance to sleep my body says 'No'. The internet comes into its own: quiet and in a warm room.
So here are my thoughts.
5 Things in My Fridge
I find this list rather uninspiring (see post below). It would sound much more exciting on Saturday after we shop.
1. Litres of milk, like every mother
2. Gherkins, one of the few vegetables Lu will eat (stretching the definition of vegetables here)
3. Leftovers for today's lunch
4. Butter - unsalted and spread thickly on pretty much anything
5. A few sad and unloved vegetables that have made it to the last day of the shopping cycle.
5 Things in My Handbag
Very little.
1. Keys to home and office. These are often not in my bag but misplaced by me or taken by Lu as she goes to drive her helicopter, get on the plane, lock herself in the cupboard or drive the car down to the chemist for some tablets.
2. Ventolin puffer - thanks inversion layer!
3. Wallet that is falling apart but I'm too tight to replace
4. Scratched sunglasses I will lose sometime over the weekend
5. Spent bus tickets
5 Things in My Wardrobe
Loads more than 5 things as I love clothes. So, four things that give me pleasure, for the memories they spark and for their bargain nature, and one other thing:
1. Pink and green cowboy shirt ($2 from the big City Mission store here in Lonnie, before it burned down)
2. Pastel embroidered cotton shirt ($5 from Valley markets, Brisbane)
3. Black crocheted cardigan ($10 Paddington markets, Sydney)
4. Paddington bear coat (5 pounds from a closing down retro store in Brighton, U.K.)
5. A tangle of shoes in the bottom of the cupboard (all full price and embarrassingly expensive)
5 Things in My Car
I don't drive but I get driven around a lot.
1. Discarded kids' shoes
2. Discarded kids' hats
3. Crumbs, many, many crumbs
4. Canvas bags for the grocery shopping
5. The "city run around" stroller - yellow and zippy and it actually fits in the car, unlike the great big Valco, which is the pram equivalent of a four wheel drive: poor handling, top heavy, and I keep running into people when I use it.
Pilates, work then weekend! Little plans for the garden, big plans for op shops, walks in the forest and making bread.
So here are my thoughts.
5 Things in My Fridge
I find this list rather uninspiring (see post below). It would sound much more exciting on Saturday after we shop.
1. Litres of milk, like every mother
2. Gherkins, one of the few vegetables Lu will eat (stretching the definition of vegetables here)
3. Leftovers for today's lunch
4. Butter - unsalted and spread thickly on pretty much anything
5. A few sad and unloved vegetables that have made it to the last day of the shopping cycle.
5 Things in My Handbag
Very little.
1. Keys to home and office. These are often not in my bag but misplaced by me or taken by Lu as she goes to drive her helicopter, get on the plane, lock herself in the cupboard or drive the car down to the chemist for some tablets.
2. Ventolin puffer - thanks inversion layer!
3. Wallet that is falling apart but I'm too tight to replace
4. Scratched sunglasses I will lose sometime over the weekend
5. Spent bus tickets
5 Things in My Wardrobe
Loads more than 5 things as I love clothes. So, four things that give me pleasure, for the memories they spark and for their bargain nature, and one other thing:
1. Pink and green cowboy shirt ($2 from the big City Mission store here in Lonnie, before it burned down)
2. Pastel embroidered cotton shirt ($5 from Valley markets, Brisbane)
3. Black crocheted cardigan ($10 Paddington markets, Sydney)
4. Paddington bear coat (5 pounds from a closing down retro store in Brighton, U.K.)
5. A tangle of shoes in the bottom of the cupboard (all full price and embarrassingly expensive)
5 Things in My Car
I don't drive but I get driven around a lot.
1. Discarded kids' shoes
2. Discarded kids' hats
3. Crumbs, many, many crumbs
4. Canvas bags for the grocery shopping
5. The "city run around" stroller - yellow and zippy and it actually fits in the car, unlike the great big Valco, which is the pram equivalent of a four wheel drive: poor handling, top heavy, and I keep running into people when I use it.
Pilates, work then weekend! Little plans for the garden, big plans for op shops, walks in the forest and making bread.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Purple shoes
I've been wearing Chuck Taylors (and now their Oxfam substitutes) for well over a decade (and using the word decade is making me feel just a tiny bit old). My first pair were a lush, emerald green, bought in Melbourne with my dear friend Ttina, and through the years I've bought them bright. I wear a lot of black and grey as a thin - well, largely transparent - veneer of sophistication and taste, but I let my garish preferences explode on my feet. My favourite shoes were a happy purple. Their time in their limelight was truncated when one night they fell victim to my then puppy Jasper and, chewed at the heel, they became gardening shoes. Chucks aren't made for such harsh treatment and they soon faded and flopped and were relegated to the garage, where they slept unloved until Al found them as he cleaned the garage in yet another of our attempts to control our life through controlling our stuff.
Looking at those shoes made me happy. They were the last pair I bought before the kids reshaped the ways I saw myself, and our mortgage and one income status put limits on my spending. Today, getting ready for a walk after another morning of a screaming baby, I pulled them in an attempt to feel girlish again. And, despite their sad state, they almost almost worked.
As my friend and I walked our dogs by the river we talked over the same issues we discuss every week: the limits of motherhood and its possibilities; the erosion of a sense of self and the development of a new identity; how great sleep is; why is it so hard to live on one wage? The talk was no big deal - these are my topics of conversation with all my close friends - but it was just kind of weird to be saying these things wearing these shoes from my very different past. I had no idea, when I bought these purple shoes, that not too many years later, this is where I'd be: down by the river, on an autumn day, missing my girls after just an hour of their absence.
Plus, Jasper, he's not so fat!
Eating from the garden: eggs, parsley and chives, just like yesterday; and tonight, more Chinese greens in a tofu and lychee stir fry.
Looking at those shoes made me happy. They were the last pair I bought before the kids reshaped the ways I saw myself, and our mortgage and one income status put limits on my spending. Today, getting ready for a walk after another morning of a screaming baby, I pulled them in an attempt to feel girlish again. And, despite their sad state, they almost almost worked.
As my friend and I walked our dogs by the river we talked over the same issues we discuss every week: the limits of motherhood and its possibilities; the erosion of a sense of self and the development of a new identity; how great sleep is; why is it so hard to live on one wage? The talk was no big deal - these are my topics of conversation with all my close friends - but it was just kind of weird to be saying these things wearing these shoes from my very different past. I had no idea, when I bought these purple shoes, that not too many years later, this is where I'd be: down by the river, on an autumn day, missing my girls after just an hour of their absence.
Plus, Jasper, he's not so fat!
Eating from the garden: eggs, parsley and chives, just like yesterday; and tonight, more Chinese greens in a tofu and lychee stir fry.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Ouch, again
On Saturday morning, way too early, I reached over to lift my baby Nell, thinking as I did 'This is a really bad idea'. And so it was. Something went pop and I've spent the last days either hobbling or lying down, and resentfully bemoaning my foolishness while Al once again stepped into the breach. Turns out that the absence of any strength in my back is nicely complemented by the absence of any strength in my abs. I am nothing but marshmallow in my middle.
My physio asked me (kindly) why I was so careless, and I only shrugged. The answer is so simple and not simple at all. I can't quite believe this is my body. Three years ago I was slim, strong and limber. I was tough. My body hung together. I didn't have to be careful because nothing was beyond the capabilities of that body. Just as I can't quite recognise the tired and creased face that stares back from the mirror, I can't accept this present body is mine. I think to myself my body has let me down but I'm beginning to learn it's my mind that's misbehaving and I - and my family - keep paying the price of its folly.
So I'm telling myself this time, I've learned my lesson. Maybe I'll now bend with my knees, work on my core strength, eat right, excercise sensibly and Do The Right Things. Maybe this time I'll learn to take care.
Maybe.
My physio asked me (kindly) why I was so careless, and I only shrugged. The answer is so simple and not simple at all. I can't quite believe this is my body. Three years ago I was slim, strong and limber. I was tough. My body hung together. I didn't have to be careful because nothing was beyond the capabilities of that body. Just as I can't quite recognise the tired and creased face that stares back from the mirror, I can't accept this present body is mine. I think to myself my body has let me down but I'm beginning to learn it's my mind that's misbehaving and I - and my family - keep paying the price of its folly.
So I'm telling myself this time, I've learned my lesson. Maybe I'll now bend with my knees, work on my core strength, eat right, excercise sensibly and Do The Right Things. Maybe this time I'll learn to take care.
Maybe.
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