Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

She 

She chased the crescent sliver of the waxing moon, her breath ragged and gasping, arriving at the old fisherman’s wharf with tingling fingertips. The long hours at work has reduced her wrists and fingertips to a mass of pins and needles, ineffective for long moments every day.  

A week had passed since the dawn had risen on her 45th birthday and she had had almost no moment to reflect on the occasion this year.  No opportunity had arisen for her to pontificate over the occasion, little time to sip a steaming hot cup of tea and gaze over the foggy autumn mornings from her kitchen balcony. 

For indeed, there was an extra wrinkle on her forehead gazing back in the brightly lit mirror, a beautiful reminder of the wisdom that comes with the little feet at the corner of her green green eyes, the several wisps of white grey hair attached to black jerseys and in the loose locks that fell across her face when it wasn’t scraped back in a hair band. 

I.

Is this how I speak of myself? How I see myself? If I’ve made the tone sound depreciating, I have failed in my scribblings today. The reality is that I’ve never been more content in my age and while I’ve overly critiqued my appearance, I certainly don’t despair at the image looking back at me in the mirror!

I have a memory of me, aged 15 at boarding school sobbing in despair at the sudden onset of a bout of acne that arrived on the morning of my birthday. Or is this memory from the year after when I discovered a line at my eyes? The absurdity of this is that I have never actually made an effort to combat wrinkles and such: I’ve squinted at the sun, my beauty regime encompassing a face-wash and SPF moisturiser from The Body Shop, and I’m known for going to bed make-up still on, my eyes circled with crushed mascara, looking like the Queen of The Walk of Shame in the morning after. (Although, typically I only wear make up on the odd occasion and my own real vanity comes from a balanced meal and healthy dinner complete with elegant tableware.)

Thus, the notion of Teenage Me seeking attention on my birthday was probably because in the 90’s aging was taboo, and every single advert or magazine article we read was about combatting that: hide those wrinkles, don’t wear clothes that show your middle aged spread, cover the grey hair, and that youth and a youthful identity was EVERYTHING in life.

Do you have any idea how grateful I am that either times have changed, or perhaps it’s just me, because I see more and more essays written by mature women who have embraced their life well into their 40’s, 50’s and beyond, and the rules that were unwritten but lived by last century have been thrown out with the dishwater. My generation (I’m not a millenial) were tied into our parents expectations, whose came from a space of privilege and unquestioning identity. My more recent trip to a hairdresser here in France was enlightening after she asked if I wanted to dye the grey. She herself had a magnificent head of salt and pepper hair, bound up with nimble dexterity, so I smiled at her attempt to sell product, and explained that I was embracing my grey hair. She gleefully then sold me a bottle of L’Oreal shampoo with violet dye and magnesium, to nurture and nourish my grey hair. Yes, okay, call me influenced!

Look, I won’t lie. With the advancement of how we identify ourselves in this age, it’s a veritable minefield of how we should see ourselves and act accordingly. That part hasn’t changed, because as much as we like to tell each other to love and respect everyone, everyone doesn’t actually look and be the same. Thus inequalities plague our judgement and all to often find ourselves fighting off either our own insecurities, or someone else’s.

Perhaps the solution lies- or has laid- with who we surround ourselves with.

My 45th birthday was a very quiet affair Chez Nous. With not much of an opportunity to have a small gathering at home or out an a restaurant this year because of my work, I was very happy to opt for a morning run followed by a day with hubby and girls out for a drive through the northern Vosges and Moselle valley and shopping spoil, complete with a braai’d dinner cooked by hubby and me, with cake and some French bubbles. Quite markedly, I had finally managed to remove my birthdate from Facebook, so the messages I received were heartfelt and sincere, and I think that was one of my most favourite aspects to my day!

And it’s that point that I would like to arrive at today; to take a moment to say that without each of these wonderful people in my life, I’m not sure I would have embraced this age with as much fervour as I have.

Family and friends from my blissful childhood days, who helped form the adult I am today.

My besties from school and early work days who helped me arrive into adulthood away from the safety of my home, whose support has always endured, who know me better than I know myself, and perhaps we don’t speak every day, but it’s as if the distances between us just don’t matter, because you are always you, and I love you all for that.

Friends I have made as a parent, friends I have made as an expat, and friends I have made online- what an absolute honour to call you mine.

2022 has proven to be one of more than 1 challenge. The truth is, during the C***d years, I was devoid of stress: I didn’t have work, nor worry about an income, I didn’t miss out on the social concerns that others had, mostly because of the built-in contact at home, and possibly that our lives as ‘expats’ have veered us in a different direction. During those days, I had more than enough opportunities to be creative, and all those moments aligned to bring me peace and harmony.

However, as I have written about more than once, I struggled this year, with finding a healthy work/play balance. Coming from a need to nurture family, while still having my own identity, it can be difficult figuring out the best way forward, and on more than one occasion, I was desperately looking for an ‘out’ in my professional capacity. Unfortunately, I also lack the skill- mentally and physically- to push my way through self-inflicted barriers, and quite simply, as much as I would love to be my own boss, create at my own pace and level, it wasn’t going to bring the financial stability we needed.

As all Christian children are taught, the verse from the Bible “Ask, and it shall be given to you”, ended up being the solution to my stress. (the verse from the bible is more than that, it’s obviously not a reason to take something that doesn’t belong to you, but I’m not going to arrive at a point to discuss the various merits of various spiritual lessons). Indeed, I was deeply unhappy at the job I had found myself, while at the same time content with the opportunities that arose from it. It wasn’t until I verbalised myself that solutions could be made.

The reality of real life is that we can’t have everything we want all the time. How the contrary to that concept has evolved is frightening, and social media will disagree with me. By the looks of how Meta want us to see the world, everyone is doing everything they want to all the time- live large, travel wide, have millions of fans…

However, I can’t earn the income I do, cook meals for my family, be attentive as a mother and wife, seek personal time with my friends as well as travel to interesting places by doing a 9-5 job, and that is the simple truth of it. I’ve had to balance my expectations, and I think there are many more of us out there that can admit to this.

Thus, knowing what value I can bring to the company I work for (and finally realising this in itself was an occasion!), I asked for certain allowances. The biggest hindrance was the late finishes and the lack of weekends off, and while I know that the industry forces working weekends, there is the opportunity for flexibility in my current situation. And so, I asked for some flexibilities, and they said yes.

The result is that I am now working 5 days a week, I have one weekend off per month, and I can probably expect to have 4-5 evenings at home- even if my workday ends at 7pm. So, I may miss out on cooking up a storm of healthy veggies for the family, but at least I will be home for family tv nights and a glass of wine in my pyjamas.

Tied in with this commitment has been the promotion to Sous Chef- ie, second in charge. It’s a position I have worked for several years, but somehow this promotion holds way more value than any other time I have done it. They also asked me to increase my working house from a 35 hour week to 39 hours. Friends, I cannot begin to describe my thoughts regarding this aspect. South Africans are relentless in their perseverance to maintain a 40 hour week- we’ve all done it haven’t we? And yet, how quickly did I embrace the European 35 hour week policy? It’s bliss, I heartily recommend it.

But weirdly- when I wrote about this promotion to a 39 hour week job, I almost found myself admitting that I was ‘finally doing a real job’. Yes, laugh all you want at my Generation X thoughts, as if Europeans doing a 35 hour week job aren’t really working. As I write these words out, I realise how ludicrous it sounds. In time, I’ll come to accept the differences in so many aspects of culture and generation and balance, and by that time, I will have run myself dead with exhaustion, but will definitely appreciate the holidays we can afford. (And then I will hit that metaverse with renewed, albeit temporary, vigour! LOL…)

As usual, my ramblings have strayed off topic, so I’ll be hitting the pause button for now, and signing off with love, blessings and gratitude. Life is good.

All my love.

G,

❤

Xxx