Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

Hitting middle youth has been accompanied by a series of explosions.

The first was a champagne cork as it exploded from the bottle, heralding my 40^th birthday, at midnight on New Year’s Eve 2006. The creamy fizz cascaded happily over the rim of the too-shallow glass, hitting the floor in a stream of bubbles and sugary alcohol. The luscious, precious liquid raced away in rivulets, like the days and sometimes gloriously action packed nights of my youth, fizzing away its potential sweetness into other, less satisfying destinations.

The second, bigger bang was when my marriage disintegrated soon after, its gossamer threads of promise which had cocooned me from the unknown unravelling into dross; unfurling a complete family unit into two, single parent families. As the ties that had bound unravelled, I was whiplashed for a while in a nightmarish landscape of fear and confusion. But time has healed the majority of the wounds and the scars continue to fade as I travel forward.  I have a different future. One that is exciting, still a bit scary and painful, but much, much brighter.  My happiness and the laughter of new people caress my children in a new web of love and support. Each day brings the gift of new experiences and people whose kisses and kindness have helped rebuild a better brighter, softer Bondi blonde.

The third explosion has really been more a series of happy little fireworks. I have reclaimed my right to be foolish.

With the midnight arrival of my 41^st, then 42^nd birthdays I kept waiting for the wisdom that was meant to accompany the added years, softer tummy and new, fine lines around my eyes.  Alas, as silly as ever, I squinted into the looking glass, asking it nicely if I could still enter the competition to be the fairest manufactured maiden in Sydney’s Eastern suburbs.  The silence that greeted me told its own story. So although I felt as post-adolescent as ever and though I have always said that I’d rather be young and foolish than old and wise any day, it looked like I’d have to compromise and settle for older and foolish.

So stuff, it.  I’ll embrace my inner child and luxuriate in not having to try so hard. While youth may be wasted on the young I’m not wasting my middle youth. A new, softer femininity is blossoming, not withering and I am going to have fun growing older just a little bit disgracefully.

The joys which I have embraced in my middle youth include the following.

Investing in matching lingerie.

There’s nothing more sensual than the feel of sliding a set of matching bra and panties on after a candle lit warm bath or an invigorating icy shower. Exercise has been a kind of drug for me in my recovery of self and my body is the best it has been since having my first squalling squid nine years ago. Even if it’s only for a dinner out with my book club mavens, or a drink with a friend, I feel more a woman knowing that I have a sexy suspender belt and stockings or just a simple matching set of pale pink lingerie hidden beneath my prim frock or tight jeans.  No one gets to see it but me, but it’s a treat that I like to invest my non-food, non-mortgage dollars in. And, maybe you know, there’s always the chance that someone else might get to appreciate it, one day soon….

I’m far from alone in my hidden la Perla luxury. There is an Amazon tribe of successful, powerful middle youth women spending up big for whispers of lace in stores across Sydney. In Paddington alone there are eight specialist lingerie stores, offering items that range from sexy through to sensual then on to downright damned whore. And though I won’t and don’t name names, you’d be surprised at some of the faces I have seen surreptiously exiting the shops, carrying a little, expensive bag of whimsy and a secret smile.

Car Dancing

I hate nightclubs but I love dancing. I love Sing Star. I love Britney, Pink, Cold Play, and Kanye West. I love driving fast in my family wagon. Why not combine all together!

I have embraced my inner Bogan. So when So What by Pink hit the airwaves, I hit the volume hard, wind down the windows and speed off (not in the school zones – I have three points left) in a shower of dust and petrol.  And though I am not now or have never been a rock star (sing along, loud):

“So what!
I’ve got my rock moves
And I don’t need you.
 And guess what?
 I’m having more fun
And now that we’re done,
I’m gonna show you tonight
 I’m alright.
 I’m just fine.
 And you’re a tool.
So,
So what, I’m not a rock star.
I’ve got my rock moves.
And I don’t want you tonight!”

Ahhh what fun!  Though my kids locked down in the back seat usually suffer from the wonderful combination of deafness and excruciating embarrassment when I play air guitar while waiting at the traffic lights with the school Principal in his car alongside, looking at me in shock and awe. Still, they do join in with the drum solos. The car is definitely rocking most afternoons on our journey home.

Sydney is the perfect place for car dancing; we are stuck in endless traffic for so long that you can perfect your moves on the way to work, to the shops or on the school run. So I urge you to Bogan along with me, preferably with the windows down to shock the neighbours. And it’s so much better than any nightclub. No lines, no need for an expensive new frock and always a comfy seat.

Daggy Soccer Mum

There is no way I am going to meet the next Mr half Right at 8:00 a.m. on some godforsaken rain soaked soccer pitch or Nipper beach on the weekends that I have the kids. And if I did run into a potential future partner, the chance for meaningful conversation would be nil-all as during these mornings I am consumed at keeping my kids alive, well behaved and away from the Slushie Machines and ice-cream vans that lurk, waiting for their opportunity to inject a sugar rush or saturated fat hit into my always greedy children.

So I luxuriate in the craggy side of my mid-youth mountain on these mornings. Track suit? Yep – OK it’s a velour Country Road one, but it’s very big around the butt – I look a little like the Saggy Baggy Elephant from my youngest child’s favourite book. Make up? Only the indelible lipstick that wouldn’t come off the previous night. Hair? Bed-head par excellence. Conscious thought and a capacity to string a sentence together? Sometimes, just. Insulated coffee mug? Oh, yes.

In fact, buying an insulated coffee mug has arguably been my finest adult investment ever, including the $7 frock I got from the Salvos and which has seen me through many a first date, almost guaranteeing a second. At first I resisted the idea of the mug. I saw myself as a hip cafe society woman – latte and macchiato savvy, not an instant coffee kind of girl. But at three bucks a pop and a need for the speed of caffeine at 6:30 a.m., 7:00 a.m., 7:30 a.m. and so on, I realised that a little bit of hot home brew was the only way I could afford to get the party started on the weekend. So now I am hooked on my generic brand red plastic insulated mug. So much so, that I have shamelessly bastardised one of Shakespeare’s most beautiful sonnets to show my appreciation of all things temperature controlled, as follows.

Ode to an Insulated Mug

Shall I compare thee to a china cup?
Thy art more plastic and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the coffee cups of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the chai in the mug does burn,
And often is the Gold Blend strong,
And from fair to fete sometimes I recline
By chance forgetting to add the sweet,
But thy eternal heat shall not fade
Nor I lose possession with label say I owest;
Nor shall cappuccino van brag I am fully in his shade,
Where his eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see
 So long lives this insulated mug and this gives life to me.

So, as I bravely saunter forward in heels just a little too high into my middle youth, I await the next little explosions that may greet me. Maybe the pop of New Year’s Eve crackers as I approach my next year? Maybe the explosion of fireworks as I find new love? Wherever the road goes, I’ll take my insulated mug, just in case the journey is longer or more exciting than I can guess.

 

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