Month: January 2015
The Silver Fox v the Fountain of Youth
Han Solo was sexy when lusting after the spirited Leia. John Book was searingly hot when slow dancing with Amish Rachel. Harrison Ford in his prime. Now he resembles a squished paper bag.
As does Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger and Robert Plant. Keith Richards gets away with it, Cliff Richards doesn’t. Johnny Depp channels Dorian Gray while Micky Rourke rocks the late Joan Rivers. See where I’m going here? We either age well or…
But what brought this on I hear you say? You may recall this post from early last year:
My gay boy buddies had asked my age. Again. It’s a yearly ritual only this time their flattering “Oh my god darling I swear you must have had ‘work’ done’ to look this good” platitudes were replaced with a marked silence, followed closely by “Well did you meet anyone while in Europe? We thought you’d be bringing home an Italian Silver Fox”. You see, i’d just been swanning around France and Italy the previous six months. Choking back my Champers I’d paused to reflect – had my youthful bloom morphed into drooping gloom, effectively eliminating all hope of attracting a male?
In the boy’s eyes it seems I had just two simple tasks to perform:
1) Drink at the fountain of youth
2) Fall in love with a sexy ‘Silver Fox’
Fighting off two overly amorous ‘foxes’ and finding the ‘elixir’ of youth in a bottle or two of particularly good French Champagne clearly didn’t count. Nor did indulging in a culturally enriching exploration of two beautiful countries while writing enough words to fill two book launches. Nope!
Which brings me to my point. Should we feel the pressure to get ‘work’ done? And when exactly is the right time to do so? Before the furrows turn to tractor tracks? Before the boobs become belly bashers? A milestone birthday? Before we spend the potential funding on that next exotic holiday?
Vain at the best of times, I found myself critiquing every square inch of my slipping body, my graying hair, my lined face. And then I examined my head space…what the hell was I thinking? Reassurance came in the form of two simple messages in a recent fashion magazine:
“It’s just a number. What’s important is how you feel. I feel pretty good most days”
(Christy Turlington Burns, Model, in response to a question on how she felt about aging)
“I think it’s important to find the humour in aging and embrace the journey. How we look is such a reflection of how happy and peaceful we are”
(Amanda Haberecht, Naturopath in response to a question on how we defy age)
Smiling, I toasted these women with a glass of lemon infused water instead of Champers (clean eating darlings!) and sang “Amen sisters!” This year I read the delightful little tome ‘How to Be a Parisian – where ever you are’ (see post ‘On Fixes and Fuckability‘ – I’m already embracing those Aphorisms!) Yep, nothing’s changed, now don’t disturb me. I’m planning that next exotic holiday.
But what’s your opinion? Is there a right time? Would you? If yes, what would you address first?
On wonky balls and bonding
It’s enormous, at least 1.5m in girth and it’s wonky. Misshapen. ‘Shouldn’t beach balls be perfectly smooth and round?’ I inquire as M empties lung capacity that oxygen deprived climbers seconds from the summit would kill for into its slowly swelling, distorted body.
The little M’s stared, their faces awe and frustration in equal measure. ‘C’mon Dada, hurry up, let’s go down to the pool?’ A red face, visible between the large splots of pink and blue adorning the ball’s transparent girth gasps ‘Soon guys, soon, go grab your towels ok?’ Finally we squeeze the ball into the lift, down to the deck, through the kiddie proof gate and unleash it into the pool giggling like school kids for it’s now teeming rain, which of course doesn’t deter for Wonky Ball demands a test drive.
And that’s when I realised the true value of family.
While Wonky Ball, too large to grip, a mind of its own and encouraged by the merest whiff of breeze spent subsequent days defiantly bobbing over lap pool die-hards, boffing unsuspecting noodle clinging kids in the head and confronting fellow poolside recliners, I spent the time observing the man who had given it life.
It hadn’t been easy convincing M to step away from a computer driven deadline and indulge himself in the company of the two most important people in his life, the little M’s, for I am not his wife and these are not my children. But one thing I knew for sure was, of the millions of dads out there wishing they’d spent more time with their kids when they were growing up, not one of them will ever lie on his death bed gasping ‘gee I wish I’d worked harder!’
Or what time constituted ‘be back at sunset!’ Six pm? When the street lights came on? When the beach sweeper arrived? Decisions extended to fish and chips v baked bean toasty pies, Monopoly v Uno, Raspberry v Lime cordial for us kids, Shandy v Chardonnay for the adults. And if Mum or Dad had work to do, it emerged from a battered brief case before ocean breezes soon had them trading scattered papers for a good book.Remember the heady days of three week family beach holidays where the biggest pressures extended to determining how soon before we could start peeling our sunburn blistered skin?
Today we clap ourselves on the back if we’ve been fortunate enough to grab a clutch of sequential days off, get drunk on the pleasure (or sober with despair) at Wifi availability and check our devices regularly; rarely allowing ourselves the opportunity to fully relax, disconnect and immerse hearts and minds in the company of our family or companions. Oh for the halcyon days of holidays past.
M’s laptop remained open, he paced, his mind caught in a self inflicted pressure loop until reminded…how fleeting the opportunities to nurture his bond with the little people – before they return to their Mum, before they morph into teenagers, before the thought of hanging out with Dad in a pool becomes passé…a distant memory.
The little M’s demonstrated their best tumble turns and impressed with synchronized swim moves, they rode his shoulders, attached like limpets to his torso (rather buff, tanned and gorgeous I must say…but I digress), and he in turn finally allowed himself to be ‘in the moment’. I know this for the deep love he had for these kids positively emanated from his eyes, his laughter so rich with gay abandon, caught up in the pure and unadulterated adoration of his babies. My work here was done.
Well not quite…
Leaving the little family contentment bubble I returned Wonky Ball to the apartment then prepared a few treats. It was time to load ’em up with sweeties and red cordial – a sugar high guaranteed to have them ricocheting off the walls the minute they return to their Mum’s arms – after all, I do have a reputation to maintain.
