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.

A make-up meltdown

I think there was an episode of The Brady Bunch which featured Greg borrowing his father's tools and not putting them away or some such thing. Of course within the requisite half hour Greg had learnt his lesson, received a few pearls of wisdom from his father, and you just knew he would never make that mistake again. Those kids never had to be told more than once. Anyway my question is why was there never a similar episode with Marcia (Marcia, Marcia) and/or Jan and/or that revolting one with the curls purloining their mother's make-up?

Because this, I have to say, is my number one source of irritation nowadays (after drivers who get confused by the colour green, and teenagers who spit, and visible muffin tops, and shop assistants who hold asinine conversations with each other while you're standing at the counter, and... well, I suppose there's actually a longer list than I thought). The whole make-up thing started relatively benignly and, to be honest, I actually thought it was sort of cute (which I suspect is a deliberate ploy with children, like the toddler who lets loose a swear-word and everyone laughs fondly - not so cute a few years later, is it?). At the time I even gave a calm, controlled Brady Bunch-style lecture about how I really didn't mind as long as the bits and pieces of make-up were always put back. Fat chance. I've now spent a goodly part of the past six years searching for mascara and foundation and eye-liner and that terrific green eye-shadow that you just can't get anymore. One of the problems is that I don't wear much make-up on a normal day (seems a little OTT given I usually work in over-sized pyjamas), which means I don't miss it until I've got a really important engagement and five minutes to make myself look presentable and the only thing that's left in my make-up drawer are several anti-ageing creams and a grubby cotton bud. Even then I start off relatively calmly and only turn into a screaming banshee when both female offspring plead innocence. Ten minutes later, after giving each other those 'god, mum's gone mad' looks, they'll take turns coming up to me with blunt eye-liner or whatever in hand saying 'is this what you're after? Dunno how it ended up with my stuff, I'd never use that colour."

So a few weeks ago I bought myself all new make-up, cleaned out my drawer, lined it with nice paper, and then fastened stickers to the outside which read This drawer and its contents belong to Ilsa (aka Mum). DO NOT TOUCH (operating under the assumption that, as with serial killers, personalising oneself might enhance the odds). Which was just fine until yesterday, when we were due to attend a family function and I decided to go for the elegant look (which, nowadays, requires a generous amount of make-up). Opening my drawer only to discover that there wasn't just one item missing, there were about four. And, once again, nobody had the faintest idea what I was talking about. So I lost it, wrenching the drawer out and flinging it, with the contents, into the bath (which has the shower at one end with a screen). Screeching 'There you go then! How easy is this now? Just help yourselves!"

Both female offspring eyed me pityingly as they backed rapidly out of the bathroom. Then I could hear them muttering as they headed away: 'do you know what's up with her?" No, do you?" And I was left to stare at the odds and ends of make-up detritus still rolling around the bath, where the drawer lay at an odd angle with its base now a separate entity from the frame. Feeling a little numb as I took in the loose powder that was sprayed artfully across the tiles, and the cracked eye-shadow cases that were leaching shades of brown and green into soapy puddles, and my new, very expensive (because I'm worth it) scientifically-proven anti-ageing serum-stuff that was now dribbling steadily towards the plughole. And I realised that while this momentary meltdown may have felt good, I couldn't even leave it like this for effect because unfortunately - and typically - I was the only person who hadn't yet had their shower.

Beware the evil side of technology

There is no doubt that technology has brought wonders. As someone who hit their teens while space invaders were considered cutting edge, the amazing capabilities of modern technology - which my offspring seem to take for granted - often leave me open-mouthed with awe (not a particularly good look but there you go). However it must be noted that there's also an nasty side to these incredible advances - and I'm talking about one device in particular. One entity that can embarrass, mortify and destroy self-esteem in several short minutes, even as it masquerades as something that is supposed to aid and abet. What's even worse is that we (as in I) paid for this nasty little bugger. I'm talking, of course, about the dreaded Wii Fit.

I hate it. And I hate the fact I knew I hated it yet I still allowed the damn thing give me a 'body test' this afternoon. I should have known better. First it had a go at me for having gained weight in the eighteen months since I last used it and then, as punishment, it rounded out my little animated character until I looked like a particularly rotund leprechaun. Next, when I attempted to get with the program and set a goal weight, it made some rather pointed remarks about needing to be more realistic. Thanks, buddy. But worse was to come when I underwent a series of balance tests and the Wii, barely disguising a supercilious chortle, asked me whether I ever found myself tripping over whilst walking. Then it proceeeded to give me a series of instructions on how best to do it properly. Walk, that is.

But the nasty bugger wasn't finished yet. While I was staring at the screen open-mouthed (yes, it's my default expression), it brusquely announced that it was about to calculate my Wii age and, before I could shriek "no!" - flashed 60 in suitably lurid colours. In case the significance of this failed to register with me, my little leprechaun immediately lowered her (fat) head and shuffled her (fat) feet. And the Wii helpfully added the fact that 60 was ten years above my actual age. Just in case, along with an inability to walk, I couldn't do simple maths either.

It was at this point I gave up. For all I knew this was all part of a cleverly coded Wii master plan - to take over the human race by immobilising us via crushed self-esteem (insert suitable evil genius laugh), until we are nothing but a gaggle of little fat leprechauns, hanging our heads and shuffling our feet. Besides if there's one thing my 50/60 years have taught me, it's to quit while you're ahead - even if it's by an extra *$#%&! decade.

The ultimate losing battle

I've just spent a marvellous week reclining on the couch drinking lots of coffee, eating lots of biscuits, and researching (i.e. reading) background stuff about middle-age. Some of the books/articles/print-outs were thought-provoking, some were boring, and some were just hysterically funny. I am now a font of fascinating trivia, such as apparently a Saudi Arabian woman can get a divorce if her husband doesn't bring her coffee (sounds reasonable), or grapefruit scent can make an older woman appear six years younger to men (perhaps the smell makes them squint), or the fact that the world's strongest vagina belongs to middle-aged Tatiata Kozhevnikova, who uses hers to lift 14kilos of weight (and I seriously do not want to know the logistics of this remarkable feat). Plus I learnt several anti-ageing tips, such as one thing that instantly ages an older woman is to dress head to toe in the same designer (dang, there goes my wardrobe). Even apart from being very useful for my eventual book, I fully expect that my possession of all this assorted trivia will enhance my desirability as a dinner-party guest forthwith.

However something that did strike me about a lot of the material I devoured during the week was a tendency by several authors to treat ageing as some type of battle. And therefore, by the very nature of things (i.e. being alive), as an ongoing battle. Apparently one needs to fight, to attack, and to launch counter-offensives - which may be why last week we learnt a perfectly lovely looking 18yr old girl/woman was on her way overseas to have a tummy tuck, breast uplifts/implants, and a vaginal tightening. It seems she could barely look in the mirror (one assumes this was due to the first two issues and not the third). I dearly hope, for her sake, that these operations will be everything she wants and needs - but I highly doubt it. She's just started 'battling' a little early than most, that's all.

The problem, as I see it, is that this is a battle which simply cannot be won. No matter how vigilant you are. That's not to say we shouldn't aim to be the best possible version of ourselves at each life-phase, and exactly what that entails will vary from woman to woman. Speaking for myself I have no intention of ageing gracefully, I've never been renowned for my gracefulness so what the hell. But I do intend on maintaining a healthy relationship with my own ageing - sort of a 'you rub my back, I'll rub yours' type of thing. Where I look after myself, within limits, and I also have fun, within limits. Like any good relationship I'll probably push things a little too far at times, and there'll be some resentment, and regrets, but at the end of the day well, we're stuck with each other. And there's too much I still want to accomplish to waste time being my own worst enemy. Literally. So by all means lather on the moisturiser, enjoy the facials and manicures and pedicures, even go the botox or the plastic surgery if it makes you feel good - but don't visualise the whole thing as a battle. Because if you do then you're going to have to label yourself a loser. It's as simple as that.

And a good night to all!

Why is it we start off life as experts at sleeping, and then progressively get worse as we age? How does that work? Do we forget something? I mean it's not like it's rocket science:

1. you lie down (preferably on a bed),
2. you close your eyes,
3. you fall asleep.

There. That doesn't sound difficult, does it? I mean I'm not having any trouble with either point 1 or 2 (in fact I am increasingly doing these anywhere and everywhere, which is particularly disturbing for passengers in my car) - but point 3 seems to have me stumped. Instead of falling asleep my mind churns with thoughts and ideas and lists. Like did Daughter No.1. remember to take her library books back? Will she be able to talk her way out of the $250 fine? Is that rumbling noise at the far end of the house a possum on the roof or somebody with nefarious intent sliding the door open? Is Only Son going to do himself lasting damage with a diet of two-minute noodles? Did Daughter No.2. set her alarm? Did I remember to write a speech for that talk I'm giving tomorrow? What will I wear? Does anything still fit? Oh, christ, is that really the time?

And as anyone who has ever had trouble getting to sleep will tell you, it's all over the moment you start stressing about the time. Because it then becomes part of a vicious catch-22, where growing anxiety about your likely level of tiredness the next day (doing frantic calculations about how many night-hours are left now... and now... and now), makes sleep even more unlikely. So that eventually you become just a mass of nerve-endings, shedding frustrated tears that are illuminated only by the little numbers that are relentlessly flipping over on your bedside clock.

Yet a quick calculation tells me that, give or take a few dozen nights in my teens when I didn't sleep at all, I've been doing this for around 18,370 nights. That's a whole lot of nights. And they say practice makes perfect? Bah humbug.