And that's all, folks...

I can't believe that it's been over two months since I last posted on this blog - but then I also can't believe that we're halfway through the year already (July? Seriously? This is getting ridiculous)! And the driving force behind this perpetual state of partial belief is the reason I have decided, somewhat reluctantly, that this will be my last posting. The problem is, you see, that I seem to have very little spare time. And, somewhat incongruously, what I do have seems to be spent collapsed semi-comatose on the couch wondering where the rest has gone.

The ironic thing is that I expected my fifties (unimaginable as they seemed) to be relatively laid-back, being perhaps semi-retired, indulging in a range of hobbies that hitherto had been sidelined or unexplored. Golf maybe, or lawn bowls, some macrame, finishing the Jungle Book mural I started in the toilet (the room, not the actual bowl) ten years ago, joining the Richard III Society. Self-indulgent things like that. Instead I am busier than I have ever been in my entire life, just like most in this age range. In fact I am beginning to suspect that middle age represents the peak of busy-ness, a circumstance that causes time to implode around it, sucking you into a spinning vortex for about a couple of decades, before spitting you out (hopefully). Which is probably why elderly people sometimes look a little dazed, and aren't quite steady on their feet.

So I am streamlining my life. Dropping one day of teaching, buying a laptop, handing eviction notices to my offspring (which they promptly hand back, giggling merrily at my quirky middle-aged humour), buying a slow cooker, prioritising writing time (and making it sacrosanct), de-cluttering the house, tying up loose ends that are flapping in the wind. And saying goodbye to this blog. Because it's done the job it was meant to, really, and only owed its continued existence to the fact I enjoyed it. And that's not enough, not right now anyway.

So where is the book? Well, the first draft of The Invisible Woman, and other remarkable phenomena of middle-age was finished a few months ago and has been sent to a second lot of readers. The issue, it seems, is the tone - I want light and airy with undercurrents of punchiness, while the publishers envisaged a more serious, exploratory treatise. So we shall probably spend some more time discussing/negotiating/compromising, and then surge forward. But it is most definitely still a fluid construction, so if something suddenly occurs to you that might be relevant, please do keep sending them to me. And a huge thank-you for all the contributions that have arrived thus far, either via the survey or the blog or dribbling into my inbox a couple at a time. All wonderful, all informative, all very much appreciated.

I've had a terrific time blogging over the past year. So much so that I shall definitely repeat the experience when I have more time, and this new one will be wholly self-indulgent. Rants and raves and whimsical musings. I can't wait. In the meantime I shall try to make the most of the implosion around me. Balancing and juggling and prioritising and trying to find a little spare time. So that every now and again I can collapse on the couch, semi-comatose, and wonder where it's all going so fast. Middle-age in a nutshell.

Come fly with me...

After twenty-eight years, six months, and twenty-five days of motherhood, I have just made the most amazing discovery about flying with offspring. It's so simple that I cannot believe it hasn't occured to me before, and being a generous type I shall now share it for free. Take separate flights. That's right, put them on one flight and you take another and then just meet up at the destination. Now I do realise this methodology may be complicated somewhat if your particicular offspring are infants so perhaps you should just concentrate on getting them ready at that stage. Like spend a few hours in the airplane loo (take a good book or partner - your choice), or find a spare seat further away and then exchange looks of irritated camaraderie with fellow passengers about the screaming child up the front.

In my case this separate flights thing came about quite by accident. When my Kokoka trip was cancelled (grrr...), I ended up with a Qantas voucher. So, when planning our Singapore holiday, I originally went to book the three offspring with the same carrier but Jetstar was sigificantly cheaper so went with them instead. The end result being that the three of them departed for the airport at 7.30 this morning (a brief hiccup occuring when they all forgot the car-keys), and I am now sitting here, in my pyjamas, typing this blog entry in absolute peace and quiet. Enjoying the best start to a holiday EVER.

I have tidied and vacummed the house (so that we return to some level of cleaniness), packed my suitcase, fed the pets, removed assorted items of crockery from various bedrooms, had a bubble bath (and cleaned the shower screen), made myself coffee and poached eggs on avocado and rye (yum!), consoled the dog who watched me pack and is now sulking, made a casserole for when we get back (anticipating feeling a little fed up with take away), watered the plants, read the newspaper, consoled the dog again - and it's only just after 9.00am. And the best is yet to come.

First a leisurely drive into the airport, without anyone begging me to stop at McDonalds, or turn the music up, or intervene in an argument, or... whatever. Then, after checking-in, I shall stroll through the duty free shops without being dragged off to look at advances in technology and/or clothing stores that vibrate with hip-hop music and pubescent sales staff. Finally I shall board my plane, where I won't have to stow anyone else's luggage, or trade the window seat, or pass out chewing gum. No, I shall make myself comfortable, get out my lap-top and write and/or read all the way from Melbourne to Singapore. I don't mind making a little polite conversation with my neighbours but that's it. Even if Ralph Fiennes offers membership to the four-mile high club I'm not interested (far too much effort). I shall only pause to consume meals (that I won't have to prepare) and champagne and hot chocolate. Hours upon hours of just me. Bliss.

And then, when I get to Singapore, I'm thinking I might just fly back again.

Super-power number three!

Super-power number three (central heating)

Confused? Let me explain. Last September, after being nursed along for a few years, my old lounge-room gas-heater exploded in a most dramatic fashion. One moment it was humming along as per normal and then next it emitted a sound reminiscent of a flatulent elephant (or what I would imagine a flatulent elephant to sound like if I had the spare time and/or inclination to imagine such things), and orange flames spat out from the bars before settling down to a vicious glow from which curls of acrid smoke wisped up toward the ceiling. I have rarely seen my offspring move so fast, which makes me suspect that in case of a localised emergency - fire, flood, nuclear disaster - it will be each to their own.

The upshot of this was that we were heater-less for the beginning of spring, which can be quite chilly, especially in the evening. That ridiculous snugglie blanket-thing suddenly became a coveted piece of clothing, while dressing-gowns were in high demand and a black market began with the long-ignored water-bottles. In short everyone was freezing - except me. Where they all tottered around like michelin men with their layers of clothing, I made do with tracksuit and t-shirt, and where they huddled around the one borrowed column heater, I disdained it in favour of fresh air and cheery optimism. Because I had central heating. And if I did feel chilly at any time, all I had to do was wait a few moments and voila! Warm once more.

Yes, menopause could not have started at a better time. Hot flushes were my friend, not my enemy, giving me a freedom that had everyone viewing me as some sort of stoic superwoman. The hot flushes even eased off as summer warmed up, lulling me into a false sense of security for quite a while. But I may have done a silly thing - you see, last month I had ducted heating installed (incidentally when they removed the old heater we discovered it was original, in other words it was well over 50 years old. That's what I call value), which I suspect may have angered the menopause gods. The result has been a full-on rush of hot flushes accompanied by whingey offspring who keep nagging to have the new heating turned up. But I blame myself for this predicament; clearly I looked the gift-horse directly in the oral region and this is the result.

Nevertheless I am determined to remain positive and, as such, I shall continue to view hot flushes as a super-power. If it wasn't for the whole fitness thing, I could probably scale Mt Everest dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. Hypothermia? Fiddlesticks. In terms of energy, I reckon one middle-aged woman is probably equal to three solar panels (let alone wind power) and, should the electricity fail for any reason (which seems to be a regular occurrence), I shall be ideally placed to maintain both my internal and external body temperature. In fact, with the way things are at the moment, I could hire out my forehead as a heating conduit. A super-power, in the true sense of the word.

Super-power number two!

Continuing with my positive thinking/super-powers theme, here is the second in the series. With several more to come! By the way, did you know that the world's strongest vagina belongs to a woman in her mid-forties who can apparently lift 14 (14!!!) kilograms with the muscles of her nether regions? Which is your cue to (1) flinch, (2) flex your pelvic floor, and (3) wonder how on earth they tested this.

Super-power number two (eyes in the back of our heads)

Enhanced by (but certainly not limited to) motherhood, by the time we hit midlife this particular super-power is honed into a quivering antenna. It might seem like witchery, and most probably had more than one medieval middle-aged woman burned at the stake, but is of course really just a melange of logic, observation and intuition all coated wth a health dose of experience. Been there, done that. Ho, hum. The upside is that we can render small children open-mouthed and teenagers narrow-eyed at our uncanny awareness of what's happening behind our backs. And we can have so much fun! Sure it's at their expense but you've got to take what you can, where you can. "How does she do that?" they mutter to themselves as they cast wary glances in our direction, not able to see our smug grin.

The downside, however, is that this super-power, once developed, cannot be switched off. Sometimes even rousing us at night so that we suddenly find ourselves staring at the ceiling with the sure knowledge that something, somewhere, is wrong. Ah, well, if there's one thing I've learnt from all those comic books it's that with great power comes great responsibility. Just look at Superman.

Super-power number one!

It occurs to me that I spend an awful lot of time on this blog whingeing about the more negative aspects of middle-age, like weight and fitness and wrinkles and chin hairs and... damn, there I go again. But there's also masses of great things about middle-age as well, it's just they don't tend to piss me off in the same way the other stuff does. It's like that old adage, if you get good service from a shop, you tend to tell an average of two, maybe three people, while bad service will have you spreading the word to at least seven. So, in the interests of balance, and operating under a new ethos of positivity, I've decided to spend some time discussing not just the good things that come with age, but the super-powers. That's right, super-powers - plural. One per week, starting with the grey that matters.

Super-power number one (the middle-aged brain)

The middle-aged brain is a thing of awe, with inductive reasoning, logic, spatial orientation, vocabulary and verbal memory all peaking in middle-age and, for women, the latter two continuing to climb into our sixties (1). It seems that older brains have developed 'cognitive templates', which are better able to predict and navigate life, meaning that the middle-aged brain beats both younger and older brains in such things as managing personal economics, judging true character, and social expertise (no surprises there). In addition the older brain may take a little longer to assimilate new information but when it does, it doesn't just race ahead but manages to take in the bigger picture at the same time (2). That's us, always multi-tasking.

Interestingly, the ready willingness of the middle-aged to blame the temporary loss of car-keys or whatever on a 'senior moment' may be based more on propaganda than fact (3) After all everyone mislays items, all the time, yet you would never find a teenager, for example, blaming their age (instead the typical reaction would be "shit, who the hell took my car-keys? Mum! I can't find my car-keys! Mu-um!"). Besides, when you examine just how much you accomplish over the course of a day it quickly becomes clear that rather than having a 'senior moment', you're having a 'too much on my mind' moment. Which should serve as a sign that you need to sit down, put your feet up and have a glass of champagne. Then you won't need the keys because you can't drive anyway.

Oh, and the catch to this particular super-power is 'use it or lose it', which means that every flick through a trashy magazine, or 1/2 hour spent watching a soapie, (or five minutes with Two and a Half Men), has to be balanced with a crossword, or a suduko, or a viewing of The Lakehouse.

1. Willis et al. (2006). Long-term effects of cognitive training n everyday functional outcomes in older adults.
2. Strauch, B. (2010). Secrets of the grown-up brain. Black Inc. Melbourne.
3. ibid.

Thinking of Japan...

In a sense I think we were a little disaster-weary a fortnight ago, having had a summer of fires and floods and earthquakes. A trifle desensitised to the tragedies unfolding beneath the lurid headlines and dramatic reporters. A little numb, albiet wary, and not quite as generous with our concern. And then along came Japan, and a massive earthquake that was itself, imagery-wise, quickly subsumed by the tsunami that followed. Rolling waves of dark water gathering trucks and cars and houses and airplanes like flotsam, pockets of determined fire tossed within the tide, the disembodied, shell-shocked voices of those filming the events, the occasional scream turned gasp turned stunned, disbelieving silence. A reporter, the following day, kept using the word apocalyptic, over and over, as if the English language was limited in the face of such devastation. And perhaps it is.

A modern, thriving, civilized, financially-sound, technologically-advanced country brought to its knees within minutes. Only to find the nightmare broaden to encompass a third disaster, this one with a potential fallout that is mind-numbing in itself. Nuclear - the word jerks as it is spoken, with the first syllable setting the tone for what follows. And we think Chernobyl, reflected across the sad-eyed faces of posthumous children, or Three Mile Island or any of a bevy of armageddon-type movies, with or without Will Smith saving the day. And we shiver, a little, as we should. Time has yet to tell what effect this unfolding disaster will have on the nuclear industry but one can only hope that we live and learn.

In amongst this horrible awfulness, however, for me, was a realisation of something positive. Something that gives me a glimmer of hope while we, as a world, continue blundering blindly forward like the proverbial bull in the china shop. Something that reflects the seismic shift that has taken place in our global consciousness over the past sixty years. Something that drove the immediate and heartfelt outpouring of sympathy and support and compassion from nations across the globe, from Australia to Canada, America to England, Israel to Iraq, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Russia, Germany, Iceland, Botswana, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Iceland, Morocco, Mongolia and many, many more. 117 countries to be exact. Including New Zealand, themselves still reeling. And if we can step up to the plate as responsible, compassionate, mature global citizens when the chips are down, then there's no reason we can't do the same when they're not. There's strength in solidarity. And that's the way forward.

Thinking of you, Japan, and sending my very best wishes.

Happy International Women's Day!

Wishing a happy International Women's Day to you all! This is a day to celebrate how far we, as women, have come, while still taking a moment to reflect on how far we've got to go. And for those who think 'psshaw (a sound which, incidentally, I consider shamefully under-used), we first-world females are doing just fine and dandy' (or words to that effect). I include the following three ads as a mini-montage of the past fifty years. And it may - or may not - surprise you to learn that the third one (designed to sell men's suits [?]), was released only in 2008. So unfortunately it's not yet time to rest on our (ever-expanding, in my case) laurels, but nevertheless a day when we should raise a glass, or a mug, and give ourselves a toast. We deserve it. Cheers!

I spy (significantly less than I used to)

After the disappointment of the whole Botox thing (as in it didn't miraculously make me look twenty years younger), I've been musing about what I would change about the ageing process if magically granted a single choice. In other words, what do I hate the most? And I came to a rather surprising conclusion. Well, it surprised me anyway. Because it wouldn't be the wrinkles or the jowls or bags or chin-wattle (although I'm not particularly enamoured of any of them). It wouldn't even be those ridiculous chin hairs or stray eyebrow hairs or whatever you want to call them. Nor would it be the extra weight, although it REALLY pisses me off, or saggy boobs or flat feet (okay, now I'm starting to feel depressed). No, if I had one single choice to wind back the clock it would be something far less visible than all those, and yet vision would be the entire point. I'm talking, of course, about my eyesight.

I don't mind so much having to wear glasses - but I hate having to depend on them. And yes, there's a difference. Wearing glasses means picking out cool frames and being able to look intelligent even if your top is on back-to-front (I get dressed in the dark a lot). Depending on them is holding a packet of crackers in the supermarket and being absolutely, frustratingly incapable of deciphering the smudgy blur of nutritional advice. Or struggling to read the dosage on a packet of medication. Or standing in the shower trying to work out which bottle is shampoo and which is conditioner and which is hair removal (four-minute shower my ass, it takes me that long to make out the 's'). If my eyesight keeps going the way it is now, soon I'll be the fat female with the bald head who keeps falling asleep while driving.

The other problem is the on-and-off relationship that I seem to have developed with my eyewear. Basically dysfunctional with issues of mutual dependency. So that I panic when I put them down somewhere and cannot find them again - which is a lot of the time. Or then, even when I do have them, I spend a great deal of time adjusting the damn things, slipping them into place to read, then pushing them down to the bridge of my nose to look into the distance, then thrusting them up to the top of my head when embarking on a conversation. Only to have them fall off when I tilt my head so that they hang suspended from my hair - sort of like a pair of abseilers in trouble - and I look like a right twit as I try to disengage us. Or I slip them back down in a hurry and manage to pull clumps of hair out at the same time so that the strands are suddenly hanging poised in front of my eyes like some sort of weirdly wafting antenna.

As ridiculous as it sounds, this has become such an issue that my hairdresser actually commented about my hair thinning in this one spot - which happens to be where my glasses live for a great deal of the time. I'm literally pulling my own hair out. Or, put another way, my deteriorating eyesight is sending me bald. And also mad, given that halfway through this post I got up to do a few things (let the dog out, collect the dirty laundry, turn off all the extra lights in the house, start the washing-machine, let the dog back in, sympathise with D1 regarding her job, pick up the coffee mug in the hallway, wash the dishes, clean up the dog pee just inside the back door, sympathise with D2 regarding her job, turn off the extra lights again, lecture D1 and D2 about the correlation between leaving lights on and our hefty electricity bill, bang my head against the wall a few times - that sort of thing), and put my glasses down somewhere or other. Where they promptly vanished. So that I am now typing with a straining, constipated-like squint which is probably - now that I think of it - the reason that the Botox didn't work.

So the way I see it I have two choices - wear a hat and carry a magnifying glass at all times (hmm, perhaps Sherlock Holmes was a fellow sufferer?), or buy one of those glasses-chain thingoes to serve as an anchor. You know, the ones that instantly age a person by about ten years no matter whether they are made from leather thong or glittering gold or funky beads hand-crafted from the vegetarian saliva of an Amazonian virgin. And maybe the fact that I simply cannot see myself wearing one of those is the very reason I need to.

Renovations...

Well, after three weeks of salads and wraps and flopping exhaustedly on the exercise bike each day (and sometimes even using it), I have managed to shed the grand total of one point one kilograms. I was going to try those over-priced Celebrity Slim Shakes (no, I didn't buy them - my slim as a reed daughter did, and then promptly forgot about them) but a plague of weight-conscious mice got to them first, devouring all the chocolate and the vanilla sachets and then zumba-dancing over the mouse-traps with their slim little feet. The odd thing was not that our mice are weight-loss-savvy, but that they were distinctly fussy in the bargain. Even when they had consumed every last shred of chocolate and vanilla powder, they still didn't attempt the strawberry-flavoured ones. So if dieting mice are rejecting the latter, then I'm taking the hint.

But the lack of weight-loss is made all the more frustrating by those contestants on The Biggest Loser who seem to shed kilos just marching single file to the weigh-in room. Or being yelled at by Michelle, or having a breakthrough moment with Shannon, or being dojo-ed by the new Blondie. Whose intensity levels suggest some underlying issues of her own. Plus she really needs some new material, I've only tuned in three or four times and I've already heard her say that whole treat-your-body-as-a-temple-not-a-nightclub line twice. A nightclub isn't even a good analogy - too much fun and frivolity and high heels and glad rags and daft pick-up lines and cheerful early-hours exhaustion. I'm thinking an all-you-can-eat restaurant, or maybe even one of those ancient Roman lounges, where plump patricians in togas recline languidly while being fed delicacies from silver-plated trays.

But it started me thinking about what sort of structure I would use to describe myself and I came to the conclusion that I'm very much like my own home: rambly and messy and comfortable and in a perpetual state of partial renovation. The good news being that we can both still scrub up okay, the bad news being that it now takes a bit of effort. And I decided that from now on, whenever I do something for the house, like buy a plant or a painting or another sarcophagus, I'm going to do something for me. Maybe some new clothing, or a foot massage, or a bar of decadent soap. Something vaguely equitable, just to add value to us both. We deserve it.

Which is all excellent timing as the mission-brown, termite-nibbled, been-falling-down-for-years front fence is finally getting replaced next week. 32 metres in slim-line Windsor picket with non-exposed posts and a new letter-box complete with lockable flap and catalogue insert. Hmm...

Mirror, mirror...

Well, I have to say that Botox was an extreme disappointment. After lengthy examination I have concluded that there is little difference. If I had taken before and after shots, I think they would have been interchangeable. If anything my smile lines have simply migrated to under the eyes, where they have congregated to make me look a little jovial and baggier than usual. Sort of like Buddha, so that now my face matches my belly. Not quite what I had in mind.

But then again this experience has made me realise one thing - that I very seldom spend much time looking at myself in the mirror nowadays. A quick glance to make sure I don't have blobs of mascara studding my cheeks, or a wily chin hair wafting gently in the breeze, and then an efficent - and usually critical - examination of my hair and that's about it. So there's a goodly chance, I suppose, that I look massively younger and just don't realise it because I'm comparing myself to way back when, and not now. And even mega-doses of Botox ain't going to bridge that gap.

It's not like I don't have a plethora of mirrors in my house either. There's one in the hall, and one over the fireplace, and several full-length ones fixed to wardrobe doors. As well as dressing-tables, and vanities, and cabinets, and we even have one of those make-up mirrors that magnify and illuminate and make pores look like moon craters while giving your skin all the glow of a ruddy apple. Conversation with my daughters, and their friends, are punctuated by teenage eyes sliding away to whatever mirror is behind me, where they give themselves a brisk once-over before sliding back. Only to repeat the process again a few minutes later, like it's a compulsion.

I can't quite remember what it was like to have such an easy relationship with my reflection, but I suspect that they - too - are looking for flaws rather than admiring the overall result. Why do we do that? There's that old joke that women will never be truly equal with men until they too can walk down the street with a bald spot and beer belly and think they look sexy. And if that's the case, we have a long way to go. God, says my slim, smooth-skinned, gorgeous nineteen-year old, staring critically at herself, I look like shit. Her friend turns it into a competition. Look at me! My nose, my chin, my ass! It casts a frigging shadow! And I wonder why it is that they cannot see what I can, or appreciate what they have. So maybe it's not about appearance as much as acceptance. And all the Botox in the world isn't going to help anybody without that.

So I have decided to start rediscovering myself. Spend a little more time enjoying the view. After all every line and wrinkle and crow's foot is part of the language used to tell my story and I quite like myself, and where I've been, and what I've done, so why shouldn't I value the end result? With this in mind I just spent ten minutes, stark naked, staring at myself in my dressing-table mirror and can confidentally say that's not a good idea. Probably best to start a little slower.

Botox - believe it or not!

Well, all I can say is thank-you very much [coat with sarcasm please]. With over 400 women connected via email, plus nearly 200 via the survey and another fifty or so via the discussion groups, I found only ONE (uncontactable) person who admitted to using Botox. Now either that says that we are a remarkably sanguine lot, or well-preserved, or totally at ease with the middle-aged-ness of our faces. The latter of which was not particularly reflected in survey answers, where wrinkles ranked right up there as things we're not too keen on. So that leads me to suspect a few more women are having foreign substances injected into their faces, but they just don't want to talk about it. Fair enough. But this left me in a bit of a pickle - how can I write about Botox with no information? Which brings me back to my original (sarcastic) thank-you because it meant I had to - after making and breaking two appointments over Christmas - drag my saggy, baggy face down to the local salon and be my own source. Yes, that's right, my name is Ilsa Evans and I have now been Botoxed. Gulp.

When I say Botoxed, I have to admit that I opted for a minimal amount over a minimal area - which will no doubt result in a patch of pristine skin that only makes the rest of me look even older. The truth is that I would be laughed out of Wisteria Lane, but it's good enough for me. And I now have something in common with all those shiny-faced celebrities - except for the fact that I'm admitting to it and they are not. Who me? Never. It's just genetic good fortune, darling. All the women in my family are wrinkle free and trout-mouthed even at eighty. Honest.

I have to say it was a rather fascinating experience. And informative. I arrived with half-baked perceptions of women trapped within tangled notions of self-esteem, fragile egos quivering with desperation, dark sunglasses in the waiting room, and frozen smiles at the checkout. Wrong on every count. Jessica, the nurse, who kindly answered all my questions, says that for most of her clients, it's more about erasing life's little tragedies. Women who have gone through some sort of trauma, such as a death in the family, only to see this written across their faces. And wanting it gone. While that may well be correct, I'm guessing it's also about vanity, and wanting to wind back the clock, and rejuvenation. After all it's why we pay big bucks for the latest gamma-beta-globules of virginal seaweed kelp - if we're told it'll do some good.

So after our interview came the big question. Yes, or no? And by then I felt a little like I did at five years of age when Daryl Thatcher dared me to put my bare feet into gumboots full of tadpoles and then walk around the pond and back. Which, now that I think of it, was probably a lot more traumatic for the tadpoles than for me. So I did it (then and now). Putting myself in Jessica's hands - literally - and even following her advice that if I was going to opt for the minimum, then I should hit the crow's feet. I have to say the most painful part was the ice-bag that was used to numb the area - that killed - with the injections themselves paling in comparison. Then came the instructions - do not expect instant results as Botox takes between four and fourteen days to work (seems a bit lazy to me but what do I know?), and do not, under any circumstances, rub and/or massage the area for four hours as apparently the stuff can travel (wtf?). Whereapon I was immediately struck with an almost overwhelming urge to rub and/or massage said areas, and this urge lasted for exactly four hours. Necessitating quite a lot of time spent sitting on my hands.

In the waiting room were several women who glanced at me curiously so I did my best to look nonchalantly urbane as I strolled through and out to my car. Instantly forgetting that windows have glass as I examined myself every which way in the rear vision mirror. But nothing had changed, and two days later nothing has changed yet either. Except that my daughter spends quite a lot of time examining my face (much like she used to examine seedlings when little, waiting impatiently for a sign of life), and my mother gave me a look that I haven't seen since I was a teenager and did something particularly daft. But it doesn't feel any different, and most of the time I forget I even had it done. So will I ever do it again? I doubt it, but stay tuned.

Middle-aged women rock!

The only evidence that yesterday I had ten raucous, riotous middle-aged women in my backyard are the six empty champagne bottles and assorted dip and cracker packaging (and chilli cheese - whoever invented that should be knighted). But I swear their combined warmth and wisdom has created a kind of energy that still fizzes. Like power.

As for the subject matter - well, if someone had told me a few years ago that I would willingly spend over four hours talking about menopause, I would have confiscated their car-keys. Or sidled away surreptitiously. I mean - menopause? How interesting can it be? Well, as it turns out, when you throw the experiences of ten women into the pot, add some champagne (and chilli cheese) for flavour, and then give the whole dang lot a good stir - very bloody interesting. Hot flashes, night sweats, extraenous body hair, hormone replacement, fire-cracker sex (you know who you are!), itchy-creepy-crawly skin, uterine scrapings [insert instinctive flinch], even nether regions that forget their place. The latter convincing me that pelvic floor exercises must become part of my daily routine - either that or perhaps a few hours spent standing on my head each evening.

I also now know more about HRT than my doctor was able to impart, as well as what happens when you go camping in the middle of nowhere, thinking you are post-menopausal only to find out, that first evening, that you most definitely, absolutely, 100%, are not.

I'm having too much fun for this to feel like work but I'm certainly not complaining (I'll save that for if the pelvic floor exercises don't work). And as we disbanded yesterday, everyone was vowing to do it again, catch up more frequently, talk about this sort of stuff and lace it with humour, companionship and champagne. But I know, we all know, that life will get in the way and we - ourselves - will slide back down the list of priorities. Though it shouldn't be that way. We need to talk. Back in the fifties and sixties this was recognised when consciousness raising became popular for women, where they would meet in groups and look at 'norms' (like lower wages, not being able to get a bank loan etc) and recognise them as part of a discriminatory pattern. Comparing experiences and drawing strength from others. We need to do the same, more frequently, because when it comes to the more challenging aspects of midlife, like menopause, we are our own best resource. "There is no greater power in the world," said Margaret Mead, "than the zest of a middle-age woman." Which makes me feel a little like a lemon but I get her point. Middle-age women rock.

December (bah humbug...)

This year, for the first time ever, and after a particularly pleasant Christmas (as in everything jelled - food, gifts, company [apart from a minor incident where hot wax was flung over not one but two of my best tablecloths]), I found myself at the shops on Boxing Day. Now this is something I've always studiously avoided, in fact in bygone days I would have rather had hot wax flung over myself, and then peeled off with the aid of a rusty stanley knife which is then jabbed into my right eye, than go anywhere near a cash register on this particular day. But this year it so happened that my youngest was rostered for a three-hour stint at McDonalds at Knox City and, somewhat buoyed by the success of the previous day (and now in need of new tablecloths), I decided to have a look at just what all the fuss is about.

Oh. My. God.

From the snarly traffic jam in the carpark to the chattering, babbling sea of humanity ebbing and flowing from shop doorway to food court, this was one of the most horrible experiences I have ever experienced. At one stage, pressed against a shop window, I tried to wrap my mind around how we would explain this tradition to a third-world country, or even friendly, tourist-inclined aliens. "Why, yes, I know we've just indulged in an orgy of consumerism in the lead-up to Christmas, and yes I know Christmas was just yesterday, and I know I've barely found places for everything I received. But, see, I really needed this hand-bag, these jeans, this half-price wrapping paper, this piece of mock snakeskin luggage with the shiny gold zips."

And the most horrible thing is that you get caught up in the hype. The bright lights, the sales banners, the bargain-price today only don't miss out subliminal messages of fulfillment and success. The cheerful, purposeful throngs of people, each with lovely smooth plastic bags hanging from their hands. Containing happiness, contentment, pride. I wanted some of that - especially if it was half the marked price. And even as I fought my way towards the exit I was thinking I must buy something while I'm here. As if it was some sort of crime to leave sans purchase. Failure.

It's not that I don't like sales; it's just that the timing of this one seems a little... well, off. The day after Christmas? Why couldn't it be a week after Christmas, like a New Year sale instead? Then we'd have a few days to enjoy our gifts before starting all over again. And I wouldn't get catalogues in my letter-box on Christmas Eve, advertising - at a cheaper price - DVDs that I'm about to hand out the following day. And then retail staff wouldn't have to spend their own Christmases preparing for the busiest day of the year. And, anyway, isn't Boxing Day supposed to be more a family day - for picnics and barbecues and backyard cricket - than a day to hurl yourself - and your family (seriously, do kids enjoy that?) - into a sea of surging humanity in search of a bargain? Especially when that's what we've been doing for the better part of the entire month already!

And, lastly, why don't we see some of that - as in the picnics and barbecues and backyard cricket - on the evening news instead of segment after segment that basically celebrates greed, while providing a free advertisement for the ongoing sales. For god's sake show me some kids running about in the sunshine, parents drinking chardonnay under the trees, the smoke from a barbecue juxtaposed across the wedgewood-blue of our summer sky - instead of the anticipatory gleam of a shopper's eye as he/she/it prepares for the competitive event of the year.

Or am I just becoming a Grumpy Old Woman who doesn't know what fun is?

December (survey done & dusted!)

A HUGE thanks to everybody who contributed to the survey over the past few months - what started off as a minor adjunct to the main project became a fascinating (if slightly voyeuristic!) glimpse into the your lives. So fascinating, in fact, that I ran it considerably longer than intended (plus I couldn't work out how to close it but that's another matter). And what particularly thrills me is that I now possess [insert suitably evil laugh, something like: mwa-ha-ha-ha] an encapsulation of 188 voices, 188 views, and 188 experiences with midlife - all of which will enrich The Invisible Woman immeasurably. So I've spent the past week transforming much of this into graphs and pie charts, each illustrated by personal narrative, and today I shall trot down to Officeworks and have it spiral bound. Is it sad that I find this all rather exciting?

But being a generous type, I'll also share a smattering of your own words of wisdom. An entree, if you will. So here [insert drum-roll] is the best and worst of middle-age according to you:

THE WORST THING ABOUT MIDDLE-AGE IS:

• Men stop checking you out at the supermarket
• Invisibility/ageism
• The body doesn't bounce back from injuries - it just bounces
• Battle of the bulge
• Hot flushes/menopause/random granny hairs
• Gravity wins and it all goes south
• Not being recognised as a valued shopper
• Wrinkles (but never mind Edna Everage says that crow's feet are the dried up beds of old smiles)
• Grown-up children still being home
• Grown-up children now leaving home
• Can't drink enough
• Actually being middle-aged (and the cost of trying not to look or feel middle-aged!)

THE BEST THING ABOUT MIDDLE-AGE IS:

• Men stop checking you out at the supermarket
• I'm finding out who I am, not my status - mother, wife, sister, daughter, but me
• Gaining wisdom. Not living through libido and the need for approval. Clarity about values and priorities
• Finding out that hairy nipples are more common than I thought
• Empty nest - time for me!
• What, besides our bums? Sorry, misread - though it was the biggest thing [about middle-age]
• You can relax with a book on a Saturday night
• No more periods!
• Less inhibitions, more disposable income
• Knowing now to sweat the small stuff, and what the small stuff is
• Experience/serenity/insight/choices
• Not caring as much what others think
• Am I really middle-aged?

November (but only just)

Spare time. Spare time. Sp-are time. Don't you think even the words sound elusive? I started thinking about spare time today, while trying to dig myself out from underneath some paperwork, and it occured to me that although I distinctly remember having some, way back when, I can no longer recall quite what it felt like. Soft and comforting? Light and airy? Or was it perhaps loose and flexible, like elastic? And what was it like, to make a cup of coffee in the morning and know that the day was filled with little pockets of pillowy time, there to be plucked at will? How different to now, where there is so much going on, piles and piles of little bits and pieces, all the time, that I just feel.... well, it rhymes with plucked anyway.

The (ridiculously) rapid-fire approach of Christmas was what got me thinking along this track, about how some spare time would make the festive season well, a little more festive. I used to have quite a bit. In fact I distinctly remember a time, about fourteen, fifteen years ago, where I actually had a practice run with the kid's stockings - just to make sure everything would fit nicely. Nowadays I just stock up on $2 socks to fill any last-minute gaps. But back then I also spent lazy hours making paper chains with them, alternating green and red, or wrapping chocolate in tissue paper and alfoil to hang on the tree, or making individual salad baskets - wrapped in cellophane with gold ribbon - for each of the rabbits. Seriously.

Then there's the entire week I spent one year painting a Jungle Book mural through the toilet, with Mowgli astride a fern-laden tree branch, and Kaa the snake wrapped around the cistern, and the elephant major marching along one wall, and a trio of monkeys gambolling on the back of the blackened door. Or the following week when, now inspired, I painted Possum Magic figures throughout our back room (aka 'the hole'), or the time I organised all the Lego into compartment-trays, or hand-made a skirt for the budgie cage that would match the dining-room curtains, or filled the matched set of five mahogany-brown photo albums, with each photo trimmed and labelled and accompanied by the occasional witty quip to lighten the nostalgia. Whereas for the last twelve years or so I've just shovelled photos into a crate on the top of my wardrobe, to be sorted 'later', and there are so many now that they spill over every time I open the door too enthusiastically and I am showered with slippery images of time past.

So all I want for Christmas is some spare time. Not too much mind, because I don't want to be greedy, but just a little.

Leaving home

And it's done. After a mammoth month, my mother is happily ensconsed in her retirement villa and the family home now sits empty on a hill in Montrose. Well, it has always sat on a hill in Montrose but the empty bit is something very new. And so was the feeling, a sort of fidgety panic, thick with nostalgia, which framed that last day. At times lightening the mood, as we made jokes about the peeling wallpaper and cracking cornices, and then weighing down recollections with a mucousy depth that tripped over words and created gaps in sentences that hung, unfinished, until they simply faded away.

Once 53 years worth of possessions were gone, donated or packed or moved or tumbled into a skip the week before, we walked through the house for one last time. Pausing in each room to embed ourselves within the past. Here were the bunks, once, where we older girls would wait impatiently - furious with the injustice - for the younger ones to fall asleep. Here is the last place I ever saw my father, alive, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Are you sure? And here is the passage, still echoing with our footsteps as we dashed from the sealed warmth of the lounge, hot water bottles clutched tight against our chests. Here is the lounge itself, complete with actual hearth, over which the stockings would hang at Christmas, and there's the door-jamb with the staggered height of seven grandchildren. Then the kitchen, the beating heart of the house, framing a million meals and conversations. The window-sill where the lizard eggs hatched, sending the tiny, slippery occupants diving into the soapy dishwater below. The table where my mother would sit, long after everyone had gone to bed, studying. And finally the washhouse with the back door, which everyone used as the front. The threshold glossy-smooth with our feet. Where my father would bring his leftover toast at dawn to feed the resident rabbit, which would hop down the backyard, past the swimming-pool, and the lemon tree, and the towering gum-trees. Which the new owners, developers calculating costs and profit, have already ripped out, leaving an apocalypse of jagged stumps and a sour note that makes our parting even harder.

There is a sense of real grief to this farewell, as if the house is a family member and we are life support. And it stuns me, over and over without any less impact, to think that I'll never park in this driveway again, or walk up the path, or push open the back door to be greeted by my mother. Do you want a cup of coffee? Something to eat? Support? Security? Your childhood? I've left home many, many times before. But I never really knew what it meant.

Last chance for the survey!

Last chance to add your experiences of midlife to the survey! I'll be taking it down at some stage this coming week (the timing of which is rather dependant on me being able to work out how - which means there's a chance it'll still be there in 20 years and I'll just have to change it to a survey about seniors). The results thus far have been terrific - and informative. For instance:

• 52% of respondents think the term 'cougar' is simply a marketing ploy while 41% find the term derogatory and 20% find it sexist. Only 27% find the expression fun, while a rather interesting (?) 9% see it as being empowering and/or inspirational.


• Weight is the single most annoying thing about middle-age. Followed by gravity.


• We're about half/half regarding willingness to undergo plastic surgery, with the most popular procedures (if money were no object) being boob-lifts, face-lifts, and tummy tucks.


• A staggering 60% see the proverbial empty nest as being a new chapter, with only 12% seeing it through a lens of sadness/nostalgia and a mere 5% linking it primarily with loneliness.


• Respondents overwhelmingly demonstrated a preference towards those in the public eye for their achievements (such as Hilary Clinton, Susan Sarandon, Ellen Degeneres, Aung Sun Suu Kyi), rather than those framed by a primary focus on appearance (such as Courtney Cox, Demi Moore etc). Unless, that is, your name is Sarah Palin. With just 0.7% of respondents indicating an admiration for this particular lady, I think we can breathe just a little easier.


• In terms of contentment, middle-aged women rate their families the highest and their sex lives the lowest. Paradoxically many are very content with their partners (48%) - so it seems it's just the sex that sucks. Or doesn't.

There's lots more stuff to come and I anticipate several weeks of enjoyment putting it all together (what can I say? I like research; but then all those percentages and pie-charts, what's not to like?). So if you haven't yet, please add your two-bobs worth to the mix by visiting the survey here. The more the merrier!

Hair (and there) number three

I didn't mean to have a third entry in this hair (and there) series - apart from anything else the hair (and there) bit no longer seems quite as cutting-edge hilarious as it did two weeks ago. However circumstances conspired against it being put to rest just yet, at least not before I add the colourful events of last Thursday. And first let me give some background by mentioning the fact I have never, in my entire life, had less spare time than I do at the moment. Some reasons for this:

• in the process of moving mother - after 53 yrs in the same house - to a retirement villa (d-day is next Thursday).
• started teaching new (Holmesglen) TAFE c/writing course rather unexpectedly (requiring complete set of lesson plans).
• just discovered I made a slight error with my current (Chisholm) teaching workload and there are two extra weeks worth of lessons I hadn't accounted for.
• daughter in flux (note the clever play on words here?)
• son's birthday has just come and gone, including a three week visit by him.
• new ms due in two months (necessitating approx. 150,000 wds of which I have written approx. 10. Which, coincidentally, is exactly how many are in the title).
• plus do you realise Christmas is just around the corner? How did that happen?

With this background, and in an effort to balance out the increasingly stressed expression on my face (I think I'm beginning to look like the father in Mary Poppins - the one who resembles a Shar Pei), I managed to extract a modicum of spare time within which to visit the hairdresser (a new one, as my old one has recently shifted her focus to the propagation of the species). I was fondly imagining a stress-free couple of hours, complete with head massage, after which I would emerge looking as good as I get. Humph. I suppose I should have been warned by my new hairdresser's conversational skills. For example:

• HD: So... got a busy day today?
• Me (rattling my magazine meaningfully): Yes.
• HD: Oh, um. Cool. [brief silence]. Whatcha up to then?
• ME: Just catching up on some work.
• HD: Oh, yeah right. That housework never ends, eh?

Idiot. But worse was to come. When it soon (two hours later anyway) became apparent that my simple request for something 'honey-brown with a scattering of subtle blonde foils' had been interpreted as 'melange of orange with plentiful streaks of urine-yellow'. Yes, I can see how the two could be mixed up. For starters they both have nine words.

However I suspect strongly that even the hairdresser knew that the resultant concoction was not a good look as she ushered me straight back over to the basin to add 'just a little toner' (plus her voice went up several octaves). I don't think there was enough toner in the entire building (or suburb, or state) to fix this up. The true nature of the result did not dawn on me until she started drying it off, and then I gradually went into a sort of catatonic shock. Which is probably why I paid $150 without demur, and just nodded graciously when she urged me to return if I wasn't happy with looking like a candy shop just vomited on my head. I exited into the sunlight, which gave my hair an almost iridescent glow. My own aura. And I drove straight down to the supermarket where I picked up a packet of $14.00 (on special) hairdye. And Murphy's Law of course dictated that I run into several people I hadn't seen for a while. Including, incidentally, one actually called Murphy. True.

And I think I now have post-traumatic stress disorder. Which is not helped by the fact the hairdye was only partially successful and the orange refuses to truly die (get it?), resulting in an odd gingery-pink glow under lights. Plus, to add insult to injury, I suspect I have less hair on top than I ever had before. I'm sure my scalp was never quite this visible, or shiny. The only silver lining to all this is that I don't have enough spare time to look in a mirror anyway. Hopefully by Christmas it'll either have faded, or fallen out. And I can always ask Santa for a wig. I'm thinking honey-brown, with a few blonde foils.

Hair (and there) - number two

Chin hairs. WTF? Enough said.

Hair (and there)

My father had a poem, or a ditty, or a saying for most occasions. There was 'I scream, you scream, we all scream for icecream' (to be recited as if brand-new each time we had the aforementioned icecream, which got a tad repetitive in summer), and 'a wigwam for a goose's bridle' (?!), and 'I eat my peas with honey, I've done it all my life, it makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on the knife (which just infuriated me as we weren't allowed to do the same), and then something about 'bread and duck under the table' (also full of false promise as we were always forced to sit at the table. On chairs). But there was one that I felt was just for me, and it went like this:

There was a little girl,

who had a little curl,

right in the middle of her forehead,

when she was good,

she was very very good,

but when she was bad she was horrid

This poem (actually penned by Longfellow) seemed to sum up everything about me. Curly hair along with a slither of good and a generous, just-beneath-the-surface slice of horridness. Uncanny. But, actually, of all the things that I possessed as a child - smooth skin, beautifully-shaped eyebrows (until I butchered them in my teens), 20/20 vision - one thing I've never regretted losing over time was my head of fluffy, fly-away blonde curls. Especially not later in my young-adulthood when I discovered spiral perms. So attractive. And those nifty foldable afro combs? So effective.

But something odd has happened in the last few months. quite unexpected in fact. I have regressed. However rather than any of the bits that I'd like to regain (see above and add incidentals like effortless fitness and an all-you-can-eat mentality that's matched by zero weight gain), I have managed - bizarrely - to develop a singular curl, smack dab in the centre of my forehead. A kiss-curl, my father used to call them, last seen on yours truly when I was about five or six years of age. Pretty damn cute then, pretty damn ridiculous now. Because there are some things that just don't lend themselves to midlife, like frilly socks and polka-dot skirts and pig-tails. And kiss-bloody-curls. I just look like I devoured Shirley Temple and she's trying to call for help.

I first noticed the damn thing about nine months ago, shortly after turning fifty (and as gifts go, this one's a fizzer), but initially just spent a little extra time nuke-ing it with the hairdryer. The problem is that it's growing in strength and is now it's able to resist even the hottest setting (unlike me, who regularly has third-degree burns on the forehead). A straightener and hair-gel does the trick, but then I look like I'm channeling Cameron Diaz, from There's Something About Mary, except that my bit of hair is sticking straight out, rather than straight up. More directional, like I'm pointing out the way. Or needing some shade.

So my question is - why? I mean, I expected the weight gain and the flat(ter) feet and the generous chin(s) and the blah-coloured hair, but a kiss-curl? Really? Is that some sort of joke? Here I am, a well-balanced (well, at least I don't topple over - often) fifty-year old with short, neat, wavy hair - which I now must cunningly part to disguise the singular spiral in the centre. Otherwise it really is so bad it's bloody horrid.