Well and truly sandwiched

I am feeling well and truly sandwiched this week, hemmed in by children on one side and my mother on the other, with me as some sort of middle-aged spread in-between. Probably a vegemite-flavoured, peanut-buttery jam, with lots of lumps and bumps and other annoying wobbly bits. All rapidly approaching their use-by date. Ho hum.

What's making it a little more sandwichy than usual is that my mother has just sold her house, aka our family home, and bought a villa (not a unit, a villa) in a retirement village nearby. Which means that fifty-three years worth of life-in-the-one-place must now be sorted through. With each possession leeching nostalgia, and memories, and anecdotes. Then there's the house itself, where our family wrote life not just within the walls, but on them as well. From some scribbled writing across the bricks, which reads I. EVANS 1976 (see left), to the doorframe that charts the height of each of the grandchildren, this house - this home - quite literally framed our lives.

As for offspring, well one is planning a move from Canberra to Wollongong, while still trying to organise the collection of his car from Hobart, while another needs to have all her worldly goods collected from student accommodation by the end of today and stored until she sorts out new living arrangements. Oh, and she doesn't have a car. The third, currently enojoying a much-needed (her words, not mine) sleep-in (she started work last week - 2 x 3 hour shifts at McDonalds - must be exhausting), is about to head off to camp tomorrow so needs to be packed and organised at some stage. And did I mention that I'm taking my mother to the airport today as she's heading off to Europe for a month? Returning just two weeks before settlement? Who doesn't organise an overseas jaunt at the same time as putting their house on the market?

So yep, I'm well and truly sandwiched. And being spread fairly thinly at that (unfortunately the use of the word 'thin' is purely rhetorical). Mind you, I did find time to draw the little cartoon to the right (and also the one up above), which perfectly sums up how I feel. But now I'd better get moving, otherwise I'll be toast...

Menopause the Musical!

Menopause the musical! What a wonderfully rollicking, raucous piece of entertainment! A smoothly crafted celebration and commiseration all rolled into one and then framed by songs that take you back to a time when you knew, absolutely, that menopause was something that only happened to other people. Like your mother.

I went along to the musical on Saturday, along with a couple of friends, and it was great fun from beginning to end. Deep and meaningful? No, not particularly. But fun? Hell, yes. We started by getting into the spirit (literally) with a Hot Flash cocktail, which came in a gorgeously vulgar plastic cocktail glass that had a multi-coloured flashing stem. This was quickly followed by the obligatory lining-up-for-the-loo, a traditional custom for females everywhere. And when a significant amount of said females are of a certain age... well, enough said. I'd paid a visit when I first arrived and been vastly amused by the tumbling, pyramid-pile of free sample incontinence pads on the vanity. My initial 'what the hell' was reiterated three-quarters of an hour later when all that remained was a flat scattering of samples. Giving rise to conversations such as the one in front of me:

Lady in her sixties: Hey look, Joyce. D'you want one?

Joyce: Sure! Shall we grab one for Jan too?

Lady: Good idea! (she grabs a handful and then puts on her glasses to read the instructions, nodding sagely every so often). D'you know, I think we should get some for Ally too. Don't you?

Joyce (with an immediate enthusiasm that speaks volumes about Ally's urinary control): Oh, yes. Absolutely.

Personally it would never occur to me to collect free incontinence pads for friends, and I'm not sure what this says about me. Inconsiderate friend? Selfish? Good pelvic floor muscles? Regardless, I pushed incontinence pads to the back of my mind (there's an image), and sallied forth to enjoy myself. And enjoy myself I did. I only wish I could remember all the songs, each of which sent the audience into fits of laughter. One of my favourites was the scene with Only You, where the singer held the microphone like a... well, let's just say that Good Vibrations set the tone.

I didn't identify with all the issues raised but then I didn't expect to. After all menopause, like all things female, varies dramatically from person to person. Plus I would have liked it to end with a really huge, over-the-top empowering song like I am Woman, which really sucks in the camaraderie of the crowd and then sends it back within an embrace (plus I know all the words). Or perhaps something which reflects the fact that so many women say mid-life is a wonderful time, a time of release, of freedom. But then again the musical is about menopause itself, not mid-life, and I'm probably being petty. Because everywhere I looked women were having a wonderful time, laughing uproariously at even the most silly jokes and then, at the end, getting up on stage to dance joyously along with the closing number. Who cares if it's frivolous and simplistic and oh-my-god, men would never consider laughing about their urinary issues. More fool them. Because you would have been hard-pressed to find a woman without a smile on her face as she left the theatre. And that alone makes it a success.

Things I have learnt...

I'm sure I'm not alone in that I hate the supercilious edge offspring get vocally when they show you something on the computer. In fact there's often more edge than... well, non-edge. Each word dripping with so much condescension you could bathe in the damn stuff. All thick and glutinous and highfalutingly how-can-you-not-know-and/or-grasp-this annoying. Which is one of the reasons why I've so enjoyed all the research I've done over the past week, about how the middle-aged brain is actually a thing of awe. Slightly forgetful perhaps, but nevertheless an ever-bubbling concoction of experience and knowledge and skill and competence, all overlaid with the almost-effortless ability to multi-task. In short, our bodies might be slightly slower, and thicker, and saggier - but our damn minds are amazing.

So to honour this, and also as a type of affirmation moving forward (see? topical and political and a little bit witty - that's verbal multi-tasking at work), I thought I'd share a sample of things that I've learnt during the past half-century. So here goes:

• When those fuddy-duddy types said there was always a price to pay - they were right.
• Pushy people get further - which makes me a little bitter.
• Computer keyboards are not as fond of wine as I.
• Never eat a large bag of liquorice the evening before an important speech (or forum, or workshop - or any event which requires leaving the house the next day).
• Children don't need to be spanked. Seriously.
• What goes around doesn't always come around. Worse luck.
• In 100 years time people are going to look back in disbelief (and/or fury) that we couldn't organise a concerted effort against climate change.
• Always wash your hands thoroughly after using a muscle relaxant such as Deep Heat - especially where subsequent use of said hands involves sanitary products.
• 'Traditional' values are often (not always but often) anti-women.
• Nothing lasts forever.
• Middle-aged women are not supposed to have the same size waist as they had as a girl. It's unfortunate, but it's life.
• Gravity's a bitch.
• Not everybody is reasonable. Unfortunately.
• Always put the toilet lid down before throwing fresh toilet rolls into the basket beside it.
• Beware the overly jealous guy - it's not romantic.
• Gay marriage is a no-brainer, just like equality for all.
• And euthanasia. Bloody hell.
• Anybody who tries to point-score politically off the misery of humanity (i.e. we'll stop the boats) doesn't deserve to have it pay electoral dividends. We're better than that.
• Life really does change irrevocably once you have children. No matter what you said.
• Always look on the bright side - assuming that there is one. And if there's not, move away from the shadows. As soon as possible.

Of course there's masses where those come from - after all I've had fifty years to collect them - but I'll show my compassionate side by not boring you with more. And naturally you may not agree with some of them, just like I may not agree with yours. But if there's one thing I've learnt above all else, it's that we'd all be a lot better off if we could, sometimes, just agree to disagree. And keep an open mind so that we never stop learning new things. Even if it involves the computer.

Flat as a tack...

A strange thing has happened since I turned fifty... actually several strange things have happened but this particular one involves the government - and the sudden interest they are displaying in my health. Now I've managed to live my first half-century with a sort of need-to-know health ethos, where as long as the bureaucrats don't tell me their health issues, I won't tell them mine. And I thought this was a mutually beneficial arrangement but it seems turning fifty has changed all that. Perhaps I am now High Risk (which is rather ironic given that my lifestyle during my late teens was a hell of a lot more high risk than anything I get up to now). Amongst other missives I have received has been a letter informing me that a bowel testing kit is in the mail (while it may seem less than cost-effective to send a piece of mail informing about another piece of mail - I suppose some things need a little mental preparedness), and another spruiking a free mammogram on offer. This latter was followed, only weeks later, by a rather plaintive note asking why I was ignoring them. So given that I had some unexpected spare time - and my bowel-testing kit had not yet arrived - I did the right thing and made an appointment.

Hmm, how best to describe this experience? Spanish inquisition? Medieval torture chamber? Death by mammary gland? Let's just say that although it was more action than I've had for a while, there was nothing even remotely pleasurable about having one's breast manipulated every which way - and then squished into a fifty-year old pancake. I had right-hand shots, and left-hand shots, and right-angled shots, and left-angled shots, and then - just when I thought things couldn't get any worse - I had nipple profile shots. Four of them. Which seems a tad superfluous but maybe I'm just being bitter. And let me add that I have long had a rather troubled relationship with my boobs anyway. In fact once, about twenty-six years ago, they annoyed me so much I had them reduced. Just to show them who was boss. So this afternoon's show and tell was not even remotely my cup of tea. Proving once more (if proof was needed) that when it comes to the bureaucracy and their freebies - we always end up getting flattened.

A tissue, a tissue...

After spending my life being somewhat stoic, I am rather surprised to have found myself turning lately into a huge sook. Where I once only cried at the really big things, like death and divorce and having the country run by people like Tony Abbott - now I well up for just about anything. For example last night I got all teary watching the final five minutes of The Bee Movie, despite the following:

1. I hadn't even watched the start of The Bee Movie, or the middle, or anything except the last five minutes,

2. I don't particularly like either Jerry Seinfeld or Renee Zellweger, and

3. What I saw was pretty damn daft (Bees landing an aircraft? I don't think so).

But that was nothing compared to last week, when F19, F15 and I curled up on the couch to watch a movie called Hachiko. Now at the time I was something of a captive audience as I'd been up since 3.30am and was therefore sort of cemented in place by sheer exhaustion. So what's the best type of movie to watch when one's eyes feel like a Bedouin campsite? A sad one of course, and take it from me, they don't come any sadder than bloody Hachiko. I was already welling up by the time Richard Gere dropped dead, and as the movie slowly worked its way through the next decade while the dog waited patiently at the railway station for his master to come home, I slowly but surely became a blubbering mess. But the fact is that Hachiko only represents the extreme of what brings me to tears nowadays. Instead it seems that I tear up over almost anything: happy, sad, even damn imaginary. I mean is it normal to cry when Homer Simpson goes out on a limb for Lisa?

It wouldn't be so bad if all these tears were flattering, with dewy eyes ever-so-slightly glistening with sensitivity, perhaps with a single tear trickling gracefully down one cheek. Instead of instantly giving me squinty red piggy eyes that just make me look like I'm auditioning for the occult. Looking on the bright side however (which my squinty eyes can only just make out), I was somewhat cheered by a recent discussion group where it emerged that I am by no means alone. It seems that many middle-aged women are in a similar situation. Crying at things that once wouldn't have rated a faint glisten. And I have to admit that made me feel a whole lot better - proving that not only am I a sook, but misery really does love company.

Empty nests - fact, fiction or fantasy?

This time last year I was watching my sanity slowly drain away beneath the trials and tribulations of a full house (which, believe me, is only rewarding with poker). It seemed everywhere I turned there were offspring, or friends of offspring, or the assorted belongings of offspring. The latter of which was spread throughout the house as if each one was marking their territory (or, in this case, my territory). Along with several mostly incontinent pets and the odd uninvited rodent. Then the eldest of the offspring (let's call him Yo-yo) changed university courses and promptly moved overseas (i.e. Tasmania) and, a few months later, his younger sister (F19) moved in with friends. By February this year it was just me and the youngest (F15) and... well, it was bliss. Minimal mess, minimal arguments, minimal everything. Two down, I thought smugly, and one to go.

Then I made my big mistake. I started planning what to do with all this spare space. Perhaps I could move the exercise bike and treadmill into the smaller room and turn it into a gym? How wonderfully motivating! What about refurbishing the other room and actually having an official spare room, complete with matching linen and an antique jug/basin set? How practical! How neat! Or what about a meditation room? A bedroom for the dog? Maybe even a present-wrapping room? How incredibly useful (especially at Christmas [seriously - imagine it]). I could go on, but you get the point - the delightfully decadent possibilities seemed endless. I should have known better.

First back was F19, who arrived with a carload of belongings and a rather sour disposition (courtesy of the fact that she didn't really want to be here either). Within weeks she had carpeted the larger of the spare rooms with detritus and I was left to cling to the possibilities inherent in the smaller room. Then I went on a week's holiday to Tasmania, arriving back on Sunday evening (to discover I had left my headlights on in the long-term carpark) and being followed almost immediately by Yo-yo, who made a lightening decision to move back to Melbourne and managed to change his university course, pack all his belongings and organise flights etc within twenty-four hours. I didn't even know he was capable of such productivity.

Don't misunderstand me - I'm very fond of all three of my offspring. But it's just that they seem to need me more when they live here. Other people tell me how hard-working they are, or companionable, or intuitive, or nicely-mannered - but when they're here they simply become lumps with optional attachments, such as ipods, and laptops and mobile phones. My lounge-room becomes a jungle of electrical cords and chargers and power-boards and people's legs - the latter of which always seem to number more than they should. And they stay up till the early hours, and then expect to sleep in - or rise at the crack of dawn and converse in stage whispers that would be audible in the next suburb across. While food disappears into some type of vortex, never to be seen again; leaving the cupboards bare no matter how many times I go shopping. Which makes an ironic contrast to all the things that remain full - like the washing machine, our data allowance, even the proverbial kitchen sink. And don't get me started on my bills.

Empty nest syndrome? I wish. Now I lie in bed and spend my time calculating whether I can afford a second mortgage - then I could just shift out and leave them to it. As long as my new place has just the one bedroom. Because spare rooms and gyms and present-wrapping rooms are all very handy - but why tempt fate?

And they're off...

Those who followed my last blog (http://kokodadiet.blogspot.com/) will be aware that this year was to be my big Kokoda challenge (aka my very own midlife crisis), and that everything fell into a heap - including me - when I injured my knee. Well, on Thursday I headed out to Tullamarine airport at 4.15am (yes, I know) to say goodbye to all those who weren't sidelined by injury which, in the end, was less than half. That's right, out of the original nine who signed up for this adventure of a lifetime, five developed health issues (mainly foot and leg related, which makes us seem pretty pathetic given a guy without legs at all managed to do the trek a few months ago!). Ironically I said at the outside that a few would probably fall by the proverbial wayside but (a) I never expected so many, and (b) I never expected one to be me. For starters, I've never been overly fond of waysides. Not only are they usually rather boring, but you're more likely to be hit by a truck.

<- The intrepid trekkers and the ones who got away ->

(interesting to see that those on the right look considerably more relaxed)

There were some tears and hearty back-clapping amongst the 'wish you were coming too' and 'hey, thanks for talking me into this' stuff (the latter with a dollop of wholly unnecessary sarcasm), and then we rejects retired to a lovely little cafe in Brunswick to eat a hearty breakfast (I had an omelette with Gruyere cheese, portobello mushrooms and chives - which almost made up for not having gone). And while there we made plans for our 'next' adventure, which may well be Vietnam in 2011. But this time we're winding back the challenge part of things (particularly the uphill/downhill stuff), and upping the shopping/massaging/alcohol bit at the end. If there's one thing I've learnt from this whole debacle it's that, at our time of life, it's vital to include balance.