The business of middle-aging with all its blessings and non-blessings, is bang on my radar right now, as I find myself hurtling towards my half a century. The numbers 5 0 have been front and central since the start of the year, so I already feel like I’ve left my forties, if only intellectually.
As one who believes in celebrating everything worth celebrating as a way of balancing out everything not worth celebrating, or even worth commiserating, I’m going large. At the start of the year, I booked a party to celebrate the occasion. After which I’ve spent most of the year regretting this decision due to unexpected health challenges. Thankfully, I have bounced back on board enough to make this happen. Thanks go to God and all who have supported me, as well as encouraged me to have the party and helped to prepare it. Grateful.
Over the years, I’ve been accused of milking my birthdays in terms of the number of celebrations I have. This has been especially fair and true from the age of forty. Although not so true in the last three years thanks to perimenopause and all that aggravates it. But, as a rule, I’m massively pro fun/play and silliness, as therapy. For these balance out my serious, grown-up job. And I like them. A lot.
When it comes to a party, I am partial to those with interesting people, good scoff and music that moves me to the dance floor and keeps me there. But I’m also permanently exhausted which means I want to be home, on the sofa, under a blanket (in all seasons), holding a cup of tea and relaxing, by early evening. Traditionally, parties have been evening events which conflicts with my desire for home comforts and early nights. However, if the holy hattrick of essentials are present, I may be too.
Earlier this year, my experience was expanded by a brunch party. My fabulous friend and her highly talented, dance inviting band (The soul Collective), played at a daytime brunch party. This was a revelation to me. A party at brunch time and in broad daylight no less! It was fantastic! As one who is recovered from alcohol and as happy to go solo on the dancefloor as in life, I loved it! And I really loved being home, showered and pajama’d up by 6.30pm. My kind of middle-aged magic if not very rock n roll! (I do enough rocking these days and rolls are something I’m becoming more accustomed to the closer I get to fifty).
Anyway, as I look back, despite all the platitudes telling us not to, I like to reflect on the key events along with the learning that has come through them. Eventually. As one trained to recognise how the patterns of the past show up in the present, the saying, ‘you don’t drive your car looking in the rear mirror’, irks me. Everything in life is about balance. When we don’t look back enough to our past, it can catch up and take us over. The past attempts to teach us, to release us from the ‘here we go again’ repetition of repeating old patterns. By looking back and learning from the past, we can become more present and focused in the here and now. We can also become released from the past patterns to practice brand spanking new and healthier patterns in the present as well as the, ‘yet to come’. More about that in my book.
I love spotting patterns.
When it comes to clothing, I have learned that patterns are my friend. I like the mix of colours and shapes that form patterns, whereas I’m bored by too many plain colours. This means I love colourful, pattern filled clothes. I like to play a game of ‘let’s see how many colours and patterns I can get on my outfit’ of a morning, to jazz up my day. At least I do when my brain is not malfunctioning so badly that I am overwhelmed by such a decision. Then it’s the same boring clothes every day, all the way.
The prioritising of pattern-sporting-clothing has a secondary benefit of supporting my allergy to ironing. Patterns are much more generous at hiding the fact they have never been acquainted with an iron, than their plain-clothed-contemporaries.
I’ve just realised there is also a third benefit as patterns are effective at disguising any mess I make of myself while getting ready in the morning. Sometimes when I am celebrating surviving breakfast stain free, I somehow manage to spill toothpaste down myself on the post-breakfast, gnasher clean up. Sigh.
I am reminded of a comment from an ex I was meeting one winter’s day, by the coast. When he spotted me, he thought to himself,
“Who’s that grubby looking soap dodger?”, before realising it was me!
I was sporting my beloved pale green duvet coat. While I was snug inside it, I wasn’t noticing that the absence of patterns on the outside was showcasing the presence of filth! As he was more embarrassed by this than I and he owned a tumble dryer, he very kindly de-filthed it for me. Result!
I’m now realising that I also like naturally ‘grubby’ coloured, slightly patterned kitchen floor tiles for their generosity in not exposing another allergy of mine; mopping the floor. (I see a pattern in my allergy’s!) When I had a friend over for dinner this week, they shared that they hadn’t been able to clean their kitchen floor for over a month due to health issues. I replied that I’ve probably mopped mine once in nearly five years, not entirely due to health issues. I’m genuinely confused as to how people find the time to do such jobs on top of all the other parts of adulting. Or do I mean, how do they find the inclination/motivation, as I can’t find either. Either way there’s no risk of anyone ever referring to my floor as, ‘being so clean you could eat your dinner off it’ (not something I’ve ever aspired to). I will add that my plates are though. Honest.
My friend went on to say that a failure to clean her floor, made her feet dirty. To which I offered, ‘that’s what slippers are for’. Perhaps this is why she keeps a pair at mine! (Nb to self, if work picks up, re-employ a cleaner – I was only able to enjoy a few sessions before things went south-er than south).
Hooray for pockets …
Now moving on to pockets. I love a good pocket, by which I mean one that is deep enough to hold useful items, like tissues or lipsalve that I otherwise I spend half my life looking for, without risk of either falling out. For a long time now, I’ve enjoyed the pocket possessing quality of cosy items like cardigans. I’ve been told cardigans are not cool, but I don’t care for cool and I do care for warm, comfortable and practical! Hooray for pockets! And my latest discovery on the pocket front is that some dresses have them! True story! After a friend accompanied me round some fabulous and affordable charity shops, I bought a couple of pocket sporting dresses (extra points for those with patterns too). My new favourite thing!
And we all know that pockets are an essential part of any handbag. Without which I would end up spending the other half of my life looking for my keys/tissues and lipsalve (if no pockets on clothing), while rummaging and ranting in the abyss that is my handbag.
And there you have it; (daytime) party’s, patterns and pockets … gifts of middle-aging that I love to accept and embrace! As for those I’m not so enthused about, that’s another story …