Thirty-Eight

Older women at the Melbourne City Baths led me to my first book, PUT YOUR WHOLE SELF IN. Soon after its publication, I was invited to write this essay, THIRTY-EIGHT. It was another opportunity to grapple with notions of ageing and draw together some of the truths I had learnt from the pool full of wise women.

Ageing comes at you from the outside, from a distance. From small comments that resound amongst the clutter of causal conversation. '...at your age it's probably different...' calls a halt to a friendly chat. I look across at my friend and colleague to locate myself in her eyes. The cosy sounds of agreement dry up. A gap opens letting in the draught.

I paste up a smile, close the door and withdraw for a moments contemplation. What age am I and what difference does it make?

From the inside I love it. I love what I am. I'm 38. Thirty eight means about as much to me as a shoe six, a 38 bustline which I'll never have , or the $37.99 I'm happy just to call $38. Yet, it does mean that I have passed over my significant moment, my birth date, 38 times. That moment when I broke through the waters, pushed down the tunnel, and made my mother stretch and scream until I burst out into the world for the first time to drag in a lungfull of cold, dry mid-winter, country air. Thirty eight times I've passed through that moment. Stretching back that memory. Cakes and candles. Loudly declaring myself into the new day with noisy celebrations. Or quietly hoping others will remember. More candles crowd the cake. Lungs fill again and blow out. In and out. Each year I move a further count away from that moment I grow closer to it. I savour the connections. The forgotten wishes at the end of a breath that links back to the beginning and forward to my last. My moment.

Close my eyes and older conversations reverberate. 'Thirty-eight? You're just a chicken!' 'Old boiler, more like it!' Well....grown up...aren't I grown up? 'Over the hill', a toddler'. past it', 'out of touch', 'in the thick of things'...I'm in the prime of life' I've heard it said. A mature woman. But still a young mother. Or an old mother with young children. 'Gosh, you're only thirty-eight! You're doing well.' 'Hey! Thirty eight already and you haven't started!'

I was well organised as I stepped out form the hotel and into the taxi. 'The university thanks. Burton Hall.' We sped off. I felt efficient. Expert. My baby was fed, washed, dressed, not crying, in capable hands, probably happy, plenty of spare nappies...I looked good. Smart maybe. Sensible? Weight. Well I was comfortable. I would be speaking to older people, some quite conservative and a few young radicals. Good. I looked the part. Prepared enough of a speech not to run dry or be too light weight. There was still enough space for jokes and playing-the-moment. I like putting myself to the test. I was on top of things, with-it, young, in love with the sunshine whizzing around a spacious city, a capital city even. I could tell I oozed importance that morning,. Even the taxi driver probably thought I was some 'big shot' up from Sydney or Melbourne. Maybe overseas. I was pleased with my briefcase. At the lights, the driver tossed a comment over his shoulder. 'Off to see your daughter, are you?'

I searched the rear vision mirror to pick up that image of me in his eyes. The lights turned. I was thrown back on myself. Back into the continuum of wondering. Of questions and answers. Of images drawn across still waters. one toss of a pebble and I laugh at how easily my reflection scatters, bending and twisting to whatever ripple takes it's shape. New thoughts settle, drawing together patterns, shapes, certainties from a loose collection of facts. People, places, different times. Solid states of being emerge that hang on minor details like make up and hairstyles, shoes flat or high heeled. And just as I construct a clear new image, another pebble is tossed and the cycle begins again.

I like these cycles. I like the changes. I enjoy that life is not what it seems on the surface. Beginnings and endings dont come predictably in a straight line. Maybe 38 years enables me to laugh at the turn arounds rather than to despair. More likely it's practice.

from Glorious Age
Edited by Jocclynne A Scutt
ARTEMIS ISBN 1 875658 03 3.