One of my boys turned teenager this year. How can this be? I thought I was still wearing Doc Martens, listening to The Jam and drawing my eyes in with Kohl. Truth is I am, but should I be?
When I was young and kicking,(do we still use that expression?) women of my age had bad perms and debated over which colour rinse to opt for. They wore stout walking shoes and Lisle stockings. Listened to chamber music and possessed a gun license for shooting rabbits. They didn’t go out much save for walks in the country. Maybe they weren’t left alone for long in case they hurled themselves from a precipice, deciding going on was futile. Oh, and they didn’t have sex.
My my. Haven’t we changed in the last 30 years? I wear high heels with sheer stockings. My hair is long and wild. I listen to Florence and the Machine and Black Sabbath (yes, still, what of it?). I don’t shoot rabbits but I like a glass or four of champagne. I go out all the time, un-chaperoned and everything.
But I still remember that girl with a 22-inch waist who went to Stonehenge. Watched the sun rise over the altar stone before hearing Hawkwind (a rock band from the 70’s and 80’s for the uninitiated) tune up for a crazy rendition of ‘Brainstorm’. I danced on a table in a Greek restaurant in South London with a beautiful Egyptian waiter. And spent a week in bed weeping when John Lennon died.
Obviously I couldn’t do those things now. It would be inappropriate (that word still makes me giggle). However, occasionally I raise a glass to that girl and know she’s still within me, egging me on after a few glasses of Veuve. Encouraging me to yell louder when my boys play rugby. And she’s always there when I see my sister (not often enough!) who brings out the pink and glittery in me, when I usually wear a lot of black and serge.
In the words of another group from my youth, Jethro Tull, ‘I’m too old to rock ‘n’ roll and too young to die’. But surely there must be some middle ground. Leather trousers with incontinent pads. Mini skirts with support stockings. Borrow those old ones from your auntie. Or maybe it’s all tosh and we can rock until we die. With shrinking flesh, dodgy knees and dimming eyesight, we can dance boldly (or badly in my case – the husband leaves the room when I dance) into our future. There should be more dancing. A bad poem I wrote about aging follows:-
When I’m old I’ll wear gold lame
And maybe something clever in macramé
I’ll listen to glam rock
Do my best to shock
While eating bags of sweeties
Ignoring my diabetes
I could enjoy flirtations with sailors
Who’d give me bunches of dahlias
And dance until dawn every weekday.
Thanks Jules !!! I really enjoy your writing very much and read all of the stories you send.
Sorry I keep meaning to ring you but never get there. I do how ever hear from Karen that Connor is happy at Cooroy.
You know where we live and that you have an open invitation if you ever want to come this way.
Peter is not at rugby anymore as he is sailing 2 to 3 days a week. He spent this weekend at a regatta . He’s decided to fight the elements and mother nature rather than someone’s ankles bum cheek and a ball.
Sent from my iPhone
Thanks Deanna. For your comments and the open invitation. Passed by your place on the way to Witta the other Saturday. Season over for the U10s now. I asked around about Peter so I knew he was concentrating on sailing now. Was he in the race yesterday? Connor is loving the new school (traitor) but still misses his Steiner mates. I have not made a single friend yet – would be nice if someone smiled at me! I miss my Steiner mates greatly but hope to stay in touch. XXXX
So true not often enough I must come over and bring my pink and glitter things and you can sing at the top of your vioce to us all xxx
Tooo right!!! And my voice has improved. Okay. No, it hasn’t. But you might be a little bit deafer than last time we met? You can only hope. XXXXXXXXXXXX