Blasting you back to the middle ages

Yesterday, I was referred to on Twitter as “middle-aged”. A “middle-aged woman”. It threw me. I don’t think of myself as middle-aged although I have no problem with telling people my age, which is 48. Funnily enough, my Twitter profile pic is a photo of a plate of hash-browns with the number 47 overlaid them in crispy bacon, a la Walter White. When I turned 48 last December, I crudely edited it with a purposefully messy “8”. So it’s out there. I don’t lie about my age.

So what’s the problem with being referred to as “middle-aged”? I am actually beyond middle-age, as with my genetics, a DNA cocktail of cancer, Alzheimers, heart disease with another smattering of cancer thrown in just to be sure, it’s incredibly unlikely I’ll live to be 96, or even 86. If I lived to 76, I would have outlived the age of my longest-living parent, who died at 74. Cancer. Of course.

There were a few forces in play regarding me even being made aware of this tweet. I wouldn’t have seen it had I not been sitting next to someone who happened to be checking his Twitter feed instead of paying attention to what was happening at the table (how middle-aged does that sound?). I had just been telling the group how much I had enjoyed a comedy gig at The Imperial – a young comedian who was delightfully confident in being kind, sweet and open about the heartbreak and betrayal he had already experienced as a 22 year old. I’d almost cried at his lack of guile.

After the build-up, his emotional punchline was more like a punch to the guts. I could almost see it coming but did not want to be taken down that road and hoped he’d veer into a different direction – that there would be a big reveal, a ‘gotcha’ that wasn’t so fucking poignant. But there wasn’t. It was intimate and awful. And wonderful. He impressed me. I hope he gets big and remains as beautifully philosophical about his lot. Be like water.

Before his gig, he was onstage and chatting with the audience as we sauntered in. He made small talk – the usual “where are you from” stuff along with the “thanks for coming” bits. He asked us about comedy festival highlights – and that’s when I mentioned a gig I’d been to the night before and how much I’d enjoyed it – an hilarious sketch comedy troupe with four gorgeously kooky players. The woman across the aisle agreed enthusiastically. She had seen the gig and loved it too. Take note - she was the labeller. She was the one who would later tweet about this exchange and call me “middle-aged”. "A middle-aged woman at blah blah's gig said blah blah was a highlight of the comedy festival blah..." Something like that. She was young. She was younger.

The group I was dining with knew the performers I’d raved about and the young comedian I’d just seen. To complete the triangle, the comedian was dating one of the comedy troupe. Melbourne comedy - cue the duelling banjos. Everyone knows everybody. So when my Twitter-checking friend saw this tweet, he knew it was about me. Because he knew I was just there, had seen the other act the night before and also knows I’d be big-mouthed enough to give my opinion. My middle-aged opinion.

He thought it was hilarious. I don’t know why I got so shirty. What if she’d just called me ‘an older woman’? Would that have been better? Given that it was Twitter, I was partly impressed with her decision to use so many characters as a descriptor. M I D D L E A G E D (she might have used a hyphen, maybe not) – ten characters. She could have used "older" but she could have just said "someone". It surprises me that she felt the need to describe anyone in that way. Was she trying to make the point that EVEN a middle aged woman found the show funny? Do we somehow lose our ability to laugh at things? 

Well, obviously. Because I didn't find this funny at all. LOL.

He was trying to reassure me by getting in my face about the fact that I was, in fact, middle aged. That didn’t help. To be honest, I could not believe it. I just wouldn’t think that I would ever be described that way. Fuck, I’m vain. I was probably still on a high from having a woman stagger up to me at a nightclub three nights earlier proclaiming “I wanna be like you in, like…. TEN YEARS!” I think in that slight hesitation, even in her inebriated state, she was aware she was being ridiculous in that estimate of my age. She was twenty. The lighting was not that low, the alcohol in her bloodstream not that plentiful that I could have passed for thirty. But I was touched. And told EVERYONE what had happened. It was more that she saw me as a possible role model for ageing that flattered me. She didn’t call me middle-aged.

I just don’t think younger people know how old older people are. I remember finding out my Mum was one of the older mums in my friend group. Most of them were first-borns. I was a second child with a brother over five years older than me. She was an horrifically old THIRTY SEVEN to their early 30s mums. I felt a little ashamed. I still remember.  My second child wasn’t even born until I was almost 37 – I must seem prehistoric to their friends. I was born in the last century – WAY back.

Time is weird. The past is weirder. I still think the 80s was about 15 years ago and am gobsmacked when I encounter fully functioning members of society who were born in 1986 and aren’t still in nappies. Even kids born in 1995 are uni students or have been able to vote for a while.

Ack.

So, what’s the problem? I embraced my forties. I have friends in their sixties and their twenties. Funnily enough I don’t know many people in their mid-thirties for some reason. Probably because they'd describe me as middle-aged, the fuckers. I even celebrated a fake 50^th birthday; my two close friends had each turned 50 a couple of years ago and I thought – fuck it – I may as well pretend I’m 50 as well. Everyone would think I was anyway as I was hanging out with them; like we somehow still keep the rules of high school and are only friends with people our exact age. [The other potential benefit of the ‘fake 50^th’ was that I was counting on people saying to me, “But you look wonderful for FIFTY!” See? You can make this age thing work for you.] 

But apparently I DO look 50 – or at least middle aged.

Whatever that means.

How.

How can it be that it's been almost a week since my mother died?

How can it be that so many days have already passed and she's not back?

How can it be that more weeks will come without her in them?

I don't want this to get better.

I don't want to get used to this.

But I know I will - and that makes me sadder than anything else I know.

Entitlement

I've often thought that what ails us in the western world is our sense of entitlement. We've pretty much been raised to believe that our future will be better than our past, that our children will be better off than our parents. that our next iPhone will be better than the one we just fell in love with.

There is even a sort of "optimistic entitlement" that extends to the choices we make. Because I chose that car, I am superior. Because I buy this brand, it is the best.  Because I have this job, because I work for these people, they must be worthy of me.

At the age of 45, I've had my wake up call. I've had my eyes opened. Just because something is what I deem the best, doesn't make it so.

It's pretty sad to be this naive. It's even sadder to become this jaded.

Blerg.

Me and my [karaoke] shadow...

So most of you would know that I've become something of a karaoke diva of late.

[Understatement of the Century]

While many friends would rather stick pins in their own eyes than belt out a tune in the company of strangers, some do 'get it'.  But there are still many who ask the questions:

Why Karaoke?

Why Devilles?

Why DO fools fall in love?

[I remember someone recounting years ago that in a philosophy exam, one student got the perfect score by answering the posed question, "Why?" with "Why not?"

At the time, I thought, "Wow - so deep..." Now I think, "What a smartarse!"

Everyone with children will know that the only answer to that question is "Because I said so!"  

Sheesh!]

But I digress...

Karaoke...such an exotic word... KAR-A-O-KE... like 'chorizo', "Moet" (pronounce the 't', people - no joke - and Blogger doesn't give me the option to add the little dots over the 'e' so get over yourselves) and, god help us, 'bruschetta', it's often mispronounced and worse still, misunderSTOOD.

The ABSOLUTE joy I get from strumming my own pain with my fingers (two times, two times - sometimes more because we all know it hurts so good), singing my song with other people's words (to a Casio backing track, no less) cannot be misunderestimated.

I remember as a lass, being in the school choir, belting out ridiculous songs for Eisteddfod and thinking "this is cool"  (and also thinking "how the hell do Welsh people do anything else with their day but learn how to spell their own words) but I remember more vividly than I care to admit, being in Year 12 and in Religious Ed class (yes, I know) and in discussion over which songs to include in our Rock Mass (YES, I KNOW), singing out loud a hymn that I thought was very groovy. (At the time. Okay - I STILL like it.) Well, the reaction of the class has stayed with me FOREVER.

Obviously.

As I was singing, I looked around the class and looking back at me were girls  with, dare I say (yes, I dare), ADMIRING looks on their faces.

When I finished, someone said, "Wow, Nadia - you have a really good voice."

And that was pretty much it.

I've been trying to relive that religious (ed) experience ever since.

How I've been wasting my time...

So, it's been over two years since writing in this blog. I think that's a record, even for my sweet, slack self...

I read over some of the posts today, reminiscing over stuff and the overriding thought I had, apart from, "I have no memory of writing that whatsoever!" was, "DAMN! I am a funny bitch."

True fact.

So, to try and kickstart The Picky Bitch (for about the eleventy billionth time - read back and practically every second blog post starts with an apology) I put it out to the Universe (well... Facebook) and asked my peeps what I should write about.  I've never really done that before and now I know why, as the suggestions included "euthanasia" and "cotecchino" (google it, would ya?). There was an idea to revisit myself in my early 20s - "Nadia: The Newlywed Years", which I really liked, as well as quite a few suggestions around food (which makes me realise I have the right friends).

But the one that struck me most (not that I won't get back to the others as I am just jonesing for a good story about Italian sausage - thank you, A.) was from my dear friend, J.

"How about starting with a story about why you stopped and took so long to get started again?" 

Why, indeed.

Now, truth be told, I was never a faithful blogger.  I could never keep a diary. I can't even floss for five consecutive days without 'taking a break'. I know there's that thing around creating a habit by doing something for 28 days in a row. That is just so foreign a concept to me. TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS - that's like, a FEBruary of doing stuff and everyone knows, it's just too HOT in February to do ANYthing.

So why, oh WHY, have I been depriving my audience (to date, about three people, and I thank you for your past patronage) of my gift? It's not really that I didn't have the time but it's certainly that I didn't have the inclination. I just kinda lost it.

So what have I been doing instead? I think you know. I KNOW you know.

Fucking Facebook.

Now, I LOVE Facebook.  I really, really do. But DAMN, it takes up a lot of my brainspace.

And not only Facebook, but FACEBOOK ON AN iPAD.

So prior to 2011, I used to have to crank up the old laptop and log in and blah, blah...then I got an iPhone and I no longer had to post using the laptop. I mean, I was going BLIND, but I was connected.

Then along came the iPad and my life was essentially over.

Goodbye blindness. Hello absolute-time-waster-that-I-can-grab-day-or-night-upon-which-I-can-tippy-tap-incredibly-hilarious-status-updates (do I lie?)...

And not only Facebook, but Angry Birds and four email accounts and Draw Something and iBooks and Kindle and Zinio and Dragonvale (OMG- I forgot totally about Dragonvale - my dragons must be DEAD by now!) and Martha and Oprah and The New Yorker (yes, I only get it for the cartoons...) and Happy Place and freaking StumbleUpon, the most evil of them all.

What's another one? Watching TV on my laptop. I somehow think this is more virtuous (apart from that whole pirating thing) way of watching television shows because I don't have to sit through the adverts. GOD FORBID! So what do I do? Watch TV responsibly? No - I BINGE WATCH. Over this past week or so I watched the ENTIRE FIRST SEASON OF "CHICAGO FIRE". That's 23 times 40 minutes of show. That's like watching a FULL DAY of television [ more of less - someone get a calculator]. When you think about it it doesn't seem that long. But I did the same with "Happy Endings" THREE SEASONS! "Go On" (actually a pretty good show) and two seasons of "The Walking Dead" which should be renamed, "Someone Eat Those Stupid People Because I Am Sick To Death of This Ridiculous Soap Opera With Some Scary Bits And I'm Not Talking About The Zombies".

Can I blame reading books? Not really. Can I blame all that volunteer work I do? Nope. Can I blame all that hands-on parenting? Negatory.

*sigh*

But Facebook is the true time-sapper.  And it's not even that I'm particularly unhappy about the time that I have, and will, spend on Facebook. I get to chat to amazing friends and some almost total strangers that I've come to love as friends (you know who you are) and that's great. I think it's just that I've carved out no time to do the other things I love.

So I've become the writer who doesn't write, the baker who doesn't bake, the cleaner who doesn't clean (HA!  I just chucked that in there to see if you're still paying attention...), the reader who doesn't read,  the mother who doesn't mother as well as she should and generally the person who thinks that posting to Facebook is enough. That her iPad is enough. That stumbling upon life is enough.

Bah!

This Picky Bitch knows it's not. So she's back...

hey...

I'm a teeny bit in love with my new boobs...

Strangely calm...

...for someone about to have parts of her body removed. I think my overriding concern is that something will happen to me under anaesthesia and I'll die never knowing I died. I wonder if that's how ghosts are really made, a la Sixth Sense... I really believe that when I die, I want to at least know about it. I want that deathbed confession, the weeping family surrounding me - children, grand-children and, what the hell, great-grandchildren touching my hand and wishing me well on my journey, me saying something incredibly witty at the very end (would you expect anything less, really?) and hopefully just dying with a smile on my face at the thought of a life well-lived. But hopefully, the only things to die on the table tomorrow will be a bunch of my cells - only the ones getting chopped out and being deprived of a blood-supply and oxygen. Not any BRAIN cells, or HEART cells or cells I will need for hopefully a long while into the future. None of THEM. So it's time to (as Andrea Bocelli sings so beautifully) say good-bye to those bits that are leaving me.

Good-bye breast tissue - thank you for being there. No thanks that there was so MUCH of you. "Bountiful breasts" - so poetic to Shakespeare and the fantasy of adolescent boys - and adolescent men, to be frank - not so poetic when trying to be shoved into too tight bras and hoisted to somewhere they wouldn't normally reside unless sheathed in lacy lace and stretchy lycra. But definite thanks for the milk, the gallons of milk that have made my babies strong and smart and beautiful. Thank you for the comfort you gave - thank you for providing a bouncy castle of boobiness that my children have loved. Thank you for adding to the hugginess of me, the squooshiness of me. That was not a bad thing. Thank you from Sam for being so much. He loves you, he really does. I love you too. I just need less of you.

Good-bye uterus - thank you for being such a wonderful home for my children. I love your work. Keeping them safe and warm and fed and nurtured. You and Placenta - no place like womb. Thanks for the reminder every month that there are cycles in nature that we are still part of despite the crazy denial that we are above it, beyond it. It's not really your fault. You are the fall guy for those little fucker ovaries. It's their fault I have to get rid of you. But I need them more than I need you. Sorry, I know that's harsh. But true. I need those little bastards to keep doing what they do for a few more years. Otherwise I will turn into a man-beast. With more hair on my lip and chin that I know what to do with. Not ready for that just yet. I was not able to tame them. They had me in the palm of their hands. Squeezing hard. Too hard. So you gotta go. Sorry.

Good-bye leaky bladder - goodbye wet knickers when I sneeze, jump, skip, hop, bounce, scream at Duran Duran concerts and cough. Although you may revisit me later in life...Depends. [Get it? See what I did there?] I will not miss that. That is yuk.

So what's the worst thing so far? The anxiety? The knowledge that I have left things undone? The fear that I will have made a mistake? Bah - done all that. Don't need having multiple procedures to go there... that's my modus operandi for my life. No, it was really the waxing. Sweet Jesus. I had a pretty close wax today. Not a Brazilian. Not even an East German, really. But a little more of a mow than usual. The waxer, aka Sadistic Sadist Grrrl, took a strip off the top of my map of Tassie, right under the leftover pregnancy spare skin I've been hanging on to just in case anyone needed any ["Skin? Anyone got some spare skin and a little fat?" "Yep! Over here!"] and I was thinking, as I broke out into a sweat and almost hit the ceiling, "If that's what it feels like on my tummy bits, WHAT THE HELL DOES WAXING LABIA FEEL LIKE???"

And you know what? I will NEVER find out.