Listening to the radio one day, the announcer noted that 'kids' (under about 25) were horrified at the thought of anyone over 40 having sex. In fact, many questioned assumed that folk stopped this act at about 39 and looked upon those acting upon such primeval urges as repulsive, even obscene. I squirmed in my forty-something hide.
Now assuming that the kids are wrong, and I have anecdotal evidence to suggest this. Take Viagra (or not, as the case may be), its ads are not targetted at the young and nubile. Current statistics divulge that older folk returning to the dating scene are picking up more than their dates due to omitting to use barrier contraceptives. In fact, if the ads are anything to go by, older folk are rampant albeit well-heeled sex fiends.
But what of real folk re-entering the dating realm? Why bother, surely a cup of tea and re-runs of Dad's Army should be enough to satisfy their needs? Companionship is the first ship pushed into port. Now this may be a lovely ship to set sail on, but companionship could be scored with a small furry animal or a blow-up doll. Lust is hardly ever alluded to in the older daters repertoire. This could be due to suspect hips or cranky backs but I suspect it's more to do with the misconception of age.
Stories of older daters are somewhat precious (our memories aren't what they once were) and much funnier than when we were young. When young, we'd cringe into our dacquiris at the unfairness of it all. Older daters revel in the full glory of embarrassment. Afterall, breasts are not where they once were nor bottoms as pert.
A very good friend, fell for a pony-tailed, single dad. He was witty, charming and quite buff. So all the ingredients were in place for a date or two or even three.
With dim lights and soft pillows, he carressed her with words and their adventures raced into the night. They were no longer cheering on the side of the soccer field Saturday morning, they were now on a much more grown-up playing field.
One morning after their exertions, the pony-tail hopped out of bed and made his way into the shower, afterall he needed to get ready for work.
My friend lay on the crumpled sheets, as the sun started to trickle into the room. One ray, as if a spotlight, fell on a small picture on the wall, drawing it to her immediate attention.
Looking over, she couldn't quite make it out. Getting up, she moved closer, grabbing her glasses from the bedside table. Her eyes widened as she looked. Dropping her glasses to the floor she picked up her clothes and dressed quickly.
In the frame sat a miniture shrine to pony-tail's ex-wife. She was smiling in one, laughing in another, comtemplative in that shot and harrowed in another.
He re-entered the room, just as she was stepping into her shoes. Not wanting to make a scene, she kissed him briefly on his de-stubbled cheek and clattered away.
As she sat in her car, the shrine flashing in her thoughts, she held back tears. Creasing her brow, the smell from the kiss lingered. But she couldn't quite make it out. All she knew was that its smell was something very familiar, she just couldn't think what.
Then she remembered.
Nit shampoo.
Smiling to herself, she turned the key in the ignition.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Songs of Joy
Tragedy and joy make up each of our lives. If we're lucky, joy is buttered a bit thicker and goes right to the crusts.
While growing up whenever a 'tragedy' struck me, whether it was a heart being harpooned or a doll's head crashing down the stairs, my grandmother would always soothe it with the prosaic phrase 'It's not an arm or a leg'.
At first, I rebelled against this usually testily applied lotion. Of course it's not an arm or a leg, I've just been dumped and it's as if a rhinerous has rootled about in my chest cavity and removed my heart. There wasn't an arm or leg in sight, for goodness sake, just lots of blood and tears. But roll my eyes, and beat my chest, Nana always knew best and took little notice of my distraught laments. Not that I was a drama queen but if I was, I would've been in silent movies because I can't for the life of me remember anyone taking me particularly seriously whatever misfortune I'd befallen. It goes without saying that it was never my fault.
Sometime later, my husband harpooned me with the news that "there was someone at work ... and she likes me and I like her". "That's nice, dear," didn't escape my lips but as I was ironing at the time (his business shirts), I tried to throw the steaming appliance at him but a stoic plug saved him and the carpet bore the brunt of my despair.
Now, had Nana been alive, I'm sure she would've tried the "It's not an arm or a leg" but since she was no longer here to dish out such wisdom, Dad stepped up to the mark.
But unlike Nana, Dad had a different approach to salving grief. His way was quite unique, he trawled through his extensive collection of CDs to triumph with the most gut wrenchingly, depressing, usually country songs to dissipate my grim moods.
Flopping down on their couch I'd arrange myself in the foetal position of despair, Dad would pop his head around the door. He'd smile brightly, then he'd cross the jamb, CD in hand. Placing it reverantly into the CD player he paused before hitting the play button. Turning to me with a look of fatherly concern he'd give me a brief synopsis of the song (dirge) that was about to be played.
The songs, and sadly I can't remember them as they'd make a great divorce compilation were the sort that you'd want to commit suicide to. Many were along the lines of some chick's bloke's heart's been swiped by some floozy (probably a first cousin) and they've packed up and left the wife and 14 kids to mourn his passing. These ones were just plain depressing.
But the fun ones, the same ones that started to cheer me up were much more proactive. These ones were quite graphic in their revenge which usually involved guns and the odd cliff. These were great to linger over, plot and have sweet dreams by. And so my broken heart was mended in part by Dad's unique attention to lyrical detail and the appropriate application to a given situation.
Not many years after this, in fact only a few months ago, Dad had a stroke. It struck him down and we were not sure whether he'd live or die. As we watched him with tubes and needles and pale, pale skin, we willed him to live, making bargains with our Catholic God.
And he lived through the first night. We didn't sleep that night as we flicked through the 'what ifs' and demented over the 'if onlys'.
The next day, I drove with Mum to the hospital. Following the labrynth of corridors that seem to ensure all hospitals look the same whether London or Auckland, we found ourselves at Dad's bedside.
He was pale and drawn. A screen bleeped and blipped behind him. His eyes, blue as a spring day, stared but they didn't stare knowingly or lovingly, they just stared. We tried to humour him to get Dad out from behind his eyes, but he seemed to look right through us. There was no recognition.
Leaving him for a moment, we walked over to the nearby window and stared out. Trees in the park, green, just as they were yesterday. Grey apartment building, nothing changed there either. Looking over to the bed, something had changed. My father, lay confused and lonely because of a severe brain haemorrhage. Mum and I stood in combined misery.
That's when I remembered Dad's therapy. The depressing array of melancholy which was enlisted to lift my sorrow. Standing there I tried to remember a song that I could perhaps sing to Dad, something that was pertinent and cheerful.
Then Paul Simon's song Red Rubber Ball popped into my head (I'm not sure if I was thinking about the ball of blood which was now lolling around in Dad's head).
Returning to his bed, I leaned over the rails and started to sing... "yes, it's going to be all right..." But I'm not a lyric person, I'm a hummer so the words did not fire out naturally, they were searched for and any word that 'fitted' grabbed at. As I struggled through the lines that I thought I knew, the first veil lifted and Dad slowly but surely finished the song by speaking the lyrics.
I've thought of a few more songs now that are just perfect for the hospital bedside and I'm sure it would be a hit...
If I Only had Time...
While growing up whenever a 'tragedy' struck me, whether it was a heart being harpooned or a doll's head crashing down the stairs, my grandmother would always soothe it with the prosaic phrase 'It's not an arm or a leg'.
At first, I rebelled against this usually testily applied lotion. Of course it's not an arm or a leg, I've just been dumped and it's as if a rhinerous has rootled about in my chest cavity and removed my heart. There wasn't an arm or leg in sight, for goodness sake, just lots of blood and tears. But roll my eyes, and beat my chest, Nana always knew best and took little notice of my distraught laments. Not that I was a drama queen but if I was, I would've been in silent movies because I can't for the life of me remember anyone taking me particularly seriously whatever misfortune I'd befallen. It goes without saying that it was never my fault.
Sometime later, my husband harpooned me with the news that "there was someone at work ... and she likes me and I like her". "That's nice, dear," didn't escape my lips but as I was ironing at the time (his business shirts), I tried to throw the steaming appliance at him but a stoic plug saved him and the carpet bore the brunt of my despair.
Now, had Nana been alive, I'm sure she would've tried the "It's not an arm or a leg" but since she was no longer here to dish out such wisdom, Dad stepped up to the mark.
But unlike Nana, Dad had a different approach to salving grief. His way was quite unique, he trawled through his extensive collection of CDs to triumph with the most gut wrenchingly, depressing, usually country songs to dissipate my grim moods.
Flopping down on their couch I'd arrange myself in the foetal position of despair, Dad would pop his head around the door. He'd smile brightly, then he'd cross the jamb, CD in hand. Placing it reverantly into the CD player he paused before hitting the play button. Turning to me with a look of fatherly concern he'd give me a brief synopsis of the song (dirge) that was about to be played.
The songs, and sadly I can't remember them as they'd make a great divorce compilation were the sort that you'd want to commit suicide to. Many were along the lines of some chick's bloke's heart's been swiped by some floozy (probably a first cousin) and they've packed up and left the wife and 14 kids to mourn his passing. These ones were just plain depressing.
But the fun ones, the same ones that started to cheer me up were much more proactive. These ones were quite graphic in their revenge which usually involved guns and the odd cliff. These were great to linger over, plot and have sweet dreams by. And so my broken heart was mended in part by Dad's unique attention to lyrical detail and the appropriate application to a given situation.
Not many years after this, in fact only a few months ago, Dad had a stroke. It struck him down and we were not sure whether he'd live or die. As we watched him with tubes and needles and pale, pale skin, we willed him to live, making bargains with our Catholic God.
And he lived through the first night. We didn't sleep that night as we flicked through the 'what ifs' and demented over the 'if onlys'.
The next day, I drove with Mum to the hospital. Following the labrynth of corridors that seem to ensure all hospitals look the same whether London or Auckland, we found ourselves at Dad's bedside.
He was pale and drawn. A screen bleeped and blipped behind him. His eyes, blue as a spring day, stared but they didn't stare knowingly or lovingly, they just stared. We tried to humour him to get Dad out from behind his eyes, but he seemed to look right through us. There was no recognition.
Leaving him for a moment, we walked over to the nearby window and stared out. Trees in the park, green, just as they were yesterday. Grey apartment building, nothing changed there either. Looking over to the bed, something had changed. My father, lay confused and lonely because of a severe brain haemorrhage. Mum and I stood in combined misery.
That's when I remembered Dad's therapy. The depressing array of melancholy which was enlisted to lift my sorrow. Standing there I tried to remember a song that I could perhaps sing to Dad, something that was pertinent and cheerful.
Then Paul Simon's song Red Rubber Ball popped into my head (I'm not sure if I was thinking about the ball of blood which was now lolling around in Dad's head).
Returning to his bed, I leaned over the rails and started to sing... "yes, it's going to be all right..." But I'm not a lyric person, I'm a hummer so the words did not fire out naturally, they were searched for and any word that 'fitted' grabbed at. As I struggled through the lines that I thought I knew, the first veil lifted and Dad slowly but surely finished the song by speaking the lyrics.
I've thought of a few more songs now that are just perfect for the hospital bedside and I'm sure it would be a hit...
If I Only had Time...
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