Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

I have just emerged from 3 week nightmare of a mind-exhausting, body-exhausting period at work. My boss was on leave and we were on the short side of staff (what’s new) and I had to push the hours on both sides of the day- a collective 27 hours extra over the period. While I get a chance to breathe easier now he’s back, I still have a couple of graveyard shifts to endure.

Over this period, I have lamented via text message to anyone who asks after me that I’m spiralling and on the verge of a break down. I’ve gaslit myself into thinking I’m a terrible mother and wife, (my family have eaten simple carbohydrates and meat all week, I’ve had to provide first aid to one child while at work after she had crashed her bike, and fought with the other because she gets narfy if we don’t see each other, and intimate relations have been, well, non existent given the sheer fatigue of my body and the dog choosing our bed to sleep in).

A sage piece of advice came from my sister. She asked me what I *could* control to just be able to stop the spiralling. And the simple answer was work, even if it means I’m working from 9am to 10pm, with an hour off somewhere in the early evening. Because I know that if I can give everything I can, the benefits of success will at least provide me with some form of endorphins from a grateful customer on the Sunday brunch queue.

However, as hard as I have tried to control the outcome of my working days, I lack a certain skill set (delegation) and I spent 7 hours last night stewing in anger and having to pick up certain un-fulfilled tasks I had expected of my day shift chef. By the time I switched off the gas at 00:15, I was spent, both mentally and physically so instead of switching on a podcast to listen to for the 30 minute cycle home, I caved to Spotify music playlists and max volume and thoroughly soaked up the vibes of music.

Getting lost in the lyrics of Muse and Kate Bush via Placebo (and under the absence of a moon) I realised that in a weeks time, I celebrate another cycle around the sun. And with daring proclivity, my mind wandered to “how am I feeling about that?”

It comes with a sense of irony as just last week I amused myself with a level of preteen angst coming from The Drama who turns thirteen on the day I become forty six. The Drama had been in a foul mood (it’s not her hormonal cycles- the cause of much of the mood, but maybe the lunar cycles). She’s lamenting the absence of all feminine attributes, the difficulties she’s enduring finding a suitable date for a birthday party and something else I’ve blocked out on account of it being ludicrous.

We don’t call her The Drama for nothing, and as difficult it is dealing with the moods that switch from joy to sadness and anger and frustration, I take stock of my own 16 year old self, crying into my reflection in the boarding school bathroom mirrors as I gaze upon a wrinkle in the corner of my eye (or was it the frown line in my forehead?) As petty as I was being – there probably wasn’t a wrinkle anywhere- I was probably just manifesting sadness at having to be away from my parents on my birthday.

Thirty years later and while I blast away the work frustration with music that’s too loud and a speedometer that’s too fast for a midnight cycle, I find myself contemplating this upcoming birthday with a sense of inconclusive acceptance.

I’m one of those people that love my birthday- not one that prefers to let it go unnoticed. If my birthday wishes were written in the sky I would beam with happiness, and I would prefer if I can supply the world with cake to celebrate the day.

Things have become more complicated since I got to share it with The Drama 13 years ago, because she shares the same sentiment, and having a full time job does eat into week long celebrations (because that’s what birthdays should be) but equally so, it is a rather ideal excuse to indulge in a little egocentric modesty (because what is life but a juxtaposed plane in a 3 dimensional space?)

So who is this person that prefers a B track simply to go against the norm, but wholly sticks to the rules? This person that is conflicted by society’s supposed degradation but embraces all the feelings that used to be taboo? This person that was raised in a god fearing house but has tattoos and believes we are all equal, but some are more equal than others, in a cruel twist of fate, not destiny.

Who am I, this person that doesn’t want a professional career, but gives more than 100% to the people that pay my salary? This person that feels like I’ve failed by turning down an invitation to dinner with my girls friends in favour of a night on the couch with my family. Yet who still secretly craves the chance to don the high heeled shoes, tight jeans, the shirt that allows more cleavage than she usually wears and gussies her face with smouldering mysterious eye shadow just to be a little bit of something…. Else?

Who am I, this forty-something woman, as regular as bread and cheese, as regular as the sun rising every day, as regular as the regular you know, who am I reconciling with grey hair, a waistline that refuses to hide in supplication, taking the afternoon naps without guilt, yet still can’t walk with 100% self-confident esteem? Why does the doubt still creep into the crevices of my sensitive consciousness? Why do I continue to seek the approval from absolutely everyone, as different as everyone truly is?

Is this the curse of The Generation X? (ROFTL a million emojis over) – Yours Truly navigating an existence under the roof of a couple of Generation Z’s?

Shew-ey. Talk about a word-vomit and little overindulgent musings! That was not the direction I had intended as I mused to myself while cycling home last week. It’s now already a week on, and we will be having cake in a mere 2 days time. Much of what I was feeling last week has finally evaporated into the thick autumn weather- the result of a weekend off work, exciting and stressful rugby tournaments and a blissful Sunday afternoon watching theatre.

Do you remember the days when the letters I wrote you were 12 pages long and took me three months? I’m feeling a little like that this week, given the number of times I’ve picked this up and written something, only to have my current mood skew the direction.

It’s now birthday eve and I am sitting on a break at work. It’s raining outside, a moment of peaceful solitude as the street lights turn on, the puddles ever increasingly disturbed by the soft rain, cozy warmth inside these French restaurants as life continues to whirl around me.

I have clearly lost my train of thought, all poised reflections of the beauty of ageing and the advantage of wisdom has fallen by the wayside. And I’m scrambling as usual to make a point- be it in my scribblings or just in my head. I need to finish something I started.

I think what I was trying to come to was this:

I feel like I should be regretting/resenting certain aspects of my day to day humdrum life. What 46 year old mother of 2 is still working night shifts and long antisocial hours? Surely it’s not right, surely there is more to life than this angst that drills into my psyche on the lonely nights wiping tables?

There probably is. It probably entails being a salesperson, a teacher, self employed.

I toy with my emotions regularly- questioning myself, Gaslighting Myself In The 21st Century (the title of an imaginary book) because the truth is, I couldn’t sell Christmas wrapping paper to Father Christmas. Teaching in a language that isn’t mine is ridiculous, and in order to earn the income I currently do, I’ll have to charge 3 times what I do for home prepared meals, not to mention have to endure ludicrous (okay, perhaps that’s a little excessive a suggestion) French admin and HACCP regulations.

It’s when my heart settles to a gentle beat after the adrenaline of a busy service, it’s when all the beans have been put back in place, and the chaos is been repaired that I realise I am good at what I do. And that comes from sticking with this job for 27 years. It comes with the wisdom on my grey hair and my dicky wrists due to carpal tunnel.

I may complain bitterly about the agony, but the truth is, age brings me the maturity to realise the beauty in it.

Naturally the ability to separate work issues and home life when it’s time to go home is a little more hard, but name me anyone who can do that. And while I carry the baggage home, grumpy/angry/sad/tired (because not all days are good days and that’s fine) it’s also normal to have kids fighting between themselves, dogs that need a walk, dustbins tumbling over the edge, 6 day old leftovers that need to be dealt with, emails to send and that comes all still after we’ve had to nourish ourselves, care for ourselves, love each other.

And why do we persevere with the schlepp? Because we have it. A reminder of a life. A reminder that we have each other- someone to care for, someone to cook for, someone to make coffee for. And we have the income. We have a reason to get up and make that cup of coffee every morning. We have a reason to glare at the grey hairs and realise that we might be having a tough week, but we are alive. Okay, so my body doesn’t quite feel like that after a weekend split and 35000 step count day, and I’ll tell anyone who listens that things are hard, but it keeps me on my toes, and alert, so that’s good, isn’t it?

So what is 46 then? Is it appreciating baggy jeans and tight-fitting tee’s? Is it hearing your niece whisper “Aunty Gaenor has lots of grey hair”, and hearing your sister say how wonderful it is that its being embraced? Is it taking time to shed the insecurities from someone else’s anxiety, or simply able to acknowledge that their behaviour is just that- their anxiety, not your own. Is it realising all cultural differences can be enjoyed and that its okay to go against the norm, to be an individual, to say yes to dust-bunnies under the wine rack, but no to cobwebs behind the picture frames? Yes to cake, or just no to cake? To think a thought, but not necessarily say it? Is it accepting my face is an open book, and if anyone should question the cloud, the shadow, or even the smile, I can say what’s on my mind. Is it to take afternoon naps in the sun, wake early to enjoy the sun, work late to catch up the deadlines, tell your children off and not pander to their every.single.demand. And to also love them unconditionally. Its doing it for yourself, almost every time.

And now, the question remains, am I going to fill in the wrinkles, or just continue to age like the culinary witch I align to?

If you’re still here, and haven’t rolled your eyes in despair and horror or boredom, thank you, because it’s your friendship that has brought me here. You’ve come with your own beautiful wisdom, and allowed me to grow and accept myself with blissful appreciation.

Onwards and upwards to November and beyond.

Sending love and (endearingly smug) happiness your way,

Love

Me.

PS from October 26th: Beth celebrated her 13th birthday with me yesterday. We had Oreo cake for breakfast and a delightful Italian dinner out last night. We got flowers and chocolates and we watched series online, we played with creative arty makeup, we dozed on the couch, walked Thandi (unhappily) in the rain but best of all- we were all here together for it.