Things I would like to learn

I will leave out the usual grand declarations people make in the hope others will think them wonderful. You know the ones – I want to learn to be a better person (what does that mean?), I want to learn how to love, blah, blah, blah.

No, I’ve decided I want to learn how to do other things, just because I do. I would like to learn how to sew so that I can wear the clothes I want to wear. I have spent the entire summer looking for a simple dress I can throw on and feel comfortable in.

I want to learn how to knit. I love the idea of making my family warm with something made with love and consideration. I love the texture, feel and colours of hand knitted things.

I want to learn to quilt. A beautiful quilt to snuggle under is wonderful. Also, there are far too many truly ugly quilts out there.

I want to learn to play the guitar. Then I can sit on those lazy Sunday afternoons in my hand sewn dress, with my hand knitted cardie and socks on, while snuggling under my hand stitched quilt, all the while doodling on my guitar.

You don’t have to go far to find adventure – just open my mother’s fridge

Opening my mother’s fridge is like exploring a new land. There are jars of spreads, pickles, olives, etc, all in various states of undress. Salami, ham, bacon can be found in abundance. Tubes of minced herbs, garlic and chilli stand to attention in the door. A lone block of lard awaits the day in it’s hideyhole when it will be used to flavour some dish (God only, knows what). Smoked salmon looks up accusingly at you whenever you pull open one of the drawers and the grated cheeses plead with you to take them out.

At the back of the fridge one can find many interesting items. I honestly did not know that bread could actually be that colour and consistency (fuzzy). I never knew my mother actually ate so many different varieties of bread. Or, is she actually operating a sandwhich shop I know nothing about? There are wholemeal, light rye, multigrain varieties of sliced bread. Then there is the packet of small chibattas, pita pockets, wraps (in wholemeal and plain), soft tortillas, ……….. I only ever see my mother eat multigrain, toasted with jam and vegemite. A bag enveloping a dish with a half eaten bbq chook sits next to the fuzzy bread, daring you to make a ‘tasty’ sandwich. Next to this, another bag in which hides a block of cheese brought home from a exhibition opening evening. Right at the very back of the fridge, the obligatory bunch of spring onions, slowly decomposing.

As you can see, growing up it was always a rather stressful thing to open the fridge and look for an after school snack which wouldn’t actually have you doubled over in pain and agony a few hours later. There were things which you didn’t go near because they were ‘mum’s’ but which stayed in the fridge, untouched, for weeks. When things finally got thrown out, you’d be in trouble for not eating them! Confusing, terrifying and just downright shitty. As a result of this, I am constantly being berated by my children for not having anything in the fridge to eat, to which I reply, ‘you can always go and see what’s in your grandmother’s fridge’.

Socially Awkward

This month I’m in Melbourne sorting out my son’s enrolment to uni. Everyday, we’ve managed to find ourselves trundling down to the uni to sit and wait for one thing or another. As we wander around the campus and wait our turn at student services, I get to see all the youth in their various shapes, colours and sizes.

When I was 18 I thought people in their 40s were near the end of their lives, incredibly boring. They’d never known excitement, never been anywhere and definitely knew nothing about anything worth knowing. They were also incredibly daggy and uncool.

I’m now in my 40s and boy am I pleased I am. Something happens when one reaches their 40s – you just don’t give a toss what anyone thinks about you anymore. I don’t know why. You just wake up one morning and shrug, ‘whatever’. As long as you are comfortable, can get what you are after without having to deal with too many ‘young’ people, you just don’t care anymore.

Looking about the campus this week, I have inwardly chuckled everytime I’ve come upon a socially awkward youth. They look like they are about to burst into tears, completely self conscious about everything. Their silly attempts at individuality, their clothes, their hair, ironically giving them a uniform look. Or the reverse, they are so cocky they’ve managed to become ridiculous.

If having to have a load of grey hair, wrinkles, saggy tits and a baggy bum is what it takes to know where you belong in the world, to feel comfortable with who you are, then I’m happy to be in my 40s. As exciting as it is to be young at times, I’m happy to be shot of all the anxieties of fitting in and being true to myself at the same time.