Midlife Relationships - are they possible?

ARE RELATIONSHIPS POSSIBLE IN YOUR NIFTY FIFTIES?

It seems like we are put on this planet to grow up and procreate.  It is relatively easy to find someone to share this journey with you when youth and optimism and unbroken spirit is on your side, where even if the whole process goes belly up after the  stresses of spawning the inevitable offspring that follow, you can pick yourself up, dust yourself off, shrug off the pain and soldier on.  Besides, they say second time around is the result of knowing what you didn't like the first time, and making sure you don't fall into those pesky patterns of constantly choosing partners that are wrong for you, in order to learn the lessons our friend the Universe deems you need to digest.  What for, heaven knows, because we're a long time dead.  Or so I'm told.

So why is it so difficult to stay related in middle age?  I use the term middle age carefully, flesh willing  I'm going to hit the hunj and therefore I am indeed at the centre of my own journey at this time.  Dead centre in fact, clinging on to that invisible line, with still all my nails, quite a few teeth and some of my mental faculties intact.  It's  a balancing act being a Nifty Fifty, that's for sure.

I've been pondering this particular titbit of life experience for a while now.  My romantic life generally teeters between the passionate to the downright ridiculous, and this can be all within the space of an hour.  Lucky me, and whoever gets to ride the gain and pain train with me.  My friend the Universe clearly thinks I'm backward in learning the lessons it has been trying to jam down my unwilling psyche for the better part of 30-odd years now, with little success.  If Brigid Jones was trying to avoid perverts and fuckwits, my mission apparently is to befriend and fall in love with financially strapped alcoholics, but only those in denial of their circumstances.  I do however diligently  try to save them (isn't that what all strong women are meant to do with these slim pickings) but who's going to save them from me...!

I've even done a workshop on this particular topic, and a hell of a lot of blogging and journaling, so I do consider myself somewhat of a dodgy expert in this field.  But just in case I still have something left to learn about poor selection of mates, I'm considering placing a personals ad something along these lines:

WANTED: I'm seeking a genuine addict who will promise to treat me badly, but also have the commitment to stick around forever, no matter what.  Alcoholism, chain smoking, gambling, unsolicited sex & cheating, the more the better.  These fine traits will make you financially irresponsible as well, and always broke, and I just love that because I'm a hard worker and I just live to prop up your lifestyle.  No home, no problem --- I have a lovely home I'm working my guts out to pay off, and I really want to share it with you for free, so you can live here and control me - because that's what I need.  A car and a licence isn't important, because I want a man I can drive around, especially to the bottle shop, and at least daily.  I'd prefer also that you had no friends and are willing to alienate mine, so we can be alone in our sick little love cocoon.  Your sex addiction will be welcomed with open arms (and legs): there's nothing I love more than being woken up at least twice a night for a quick root with a tiny little dick.  I'll hardly notice it, but for the tired feeling I wake up with every day, but the bonus of looking at your red shiny face and listening to you endlessly cough your lungs up all night is reward enough for me!  If you're untrustworthy, lie and cheat, that's an added bonus because I love surprises, especially when your women knock on my door.  Anger problems and violence is welcomed also; I just thrive on the drama, especially when it can be fuelled by alcohol or drugs, to add that element of real dangerousness to it, because I do so like to live on the edge.  Basically, if you can provide the rollercoaster, I'll ride it with you forever, because you're my man!

The biggest problem with placing an ad like this will be getting inundated with offers.  

On a more serious note, it's curious to note that all around me there are single people of around my age group, who get into relationships and then get out of them twice as fast.  You hear the usual platitudes: "Oh all the good ones are taken," or that one I personally love: "There's no available men.  There are four women to every man in this age group."  Yeah, right.  Well, all you need is one, and that can't be too hard a number to shoot for, one would think.

Because it seems to go a little like this.  You meet a possibility and you feel hopeful when he's (a) employed, (b) isn't homeless and (c) seems sociable and of course (d) has that oh so important sense of humor.  Because God knows you need one when you're trying to find a partner at this age.  A little further down the track, things aren't looking quite so rosy.  You're a fair chance first up to jump into bed with the at least 50% sexually dysfunctional,  or the 48% that are in denial about it…. which doesn't leave much of a pool to work with.  Thank heavens that women's libidos tend to dry up just as fast when partnering these types, and obviously some cunning planning went into that.  You then find out other challenging, less than obvious pearls of knowledge, such as he's not quite homeless but he should be, as he spends more time at the pub than anywhere else, and the only sharing he's going to do with you is offer you a fag, that's if it happens to be dole week and he's feeling flush and generous. And tragically, while you realise he's starting to seem seriously awful, his single mates are even worse.

Then there is the matter of hair and teeth.  I personally subscribe to both, as I do supply my share in this joint venture, though I can't insist they are mandatory in a partner.  Because I'd seriously rather a dentally challenged, folically sparse but kind and decent man with no addictions, than a hirsute Uncle Dan's fixture with a short fuse and an even shorter dick, but a full set of Siamese choppers and a few good ladyboy tales to regale me with, from their annual visits to the Land of Smiles and Happy Endings.

As you can glean from this piece, my own sense of humor is abundantly and gloriously intact, but I'll rein it in for now and try and get to the point - and I do have one somewhere in here.  Be patient.

My own verdict on all of this: I firmly believe that the technological age we live in, and our wholesale embrace of anything but actually talking face to face with people, partners included, has led to this crazy vapid texting/sexting/Tindering/Facebooking style of relationship which really on all accounts is hopeless.  If you're not finding out he's friending his exes on Facebook, then he's reading your texts because they happen to have popped up via that great invention, The Cloud, onto your iPad which you wouldn't consider needs to be under lock and key in your own home, but apparently does.  Make that a safe, and with three locks.

And don't even get me started on the Friendzone, a mostly male affliction from which commonly the more decent men of this age seem to suffer from, purely because they're not trying to throw their tongues down your throat or their leg over you on every first encounter, and thereby suffering the consequences of women assuming they are one of the abovementioned 50/48% and to be avoided at all costs.  At least you can never have too many friends.

Quite aside from all these new age problems, you're also dealing with the old age issues of multiple exes, some of which a person can still be stealthily entangled with, the hedging of bets, and sitting on fences, as uncomfortable and splintered as that might sound.  Then of course there's the ultimate minefield of children, his and yours, and how they fit into the whole messy stew of resentment and shattered dreams.   

Lastly of course you're dealing with old age, or encroaching geriatrica, and all its related health problems.  There's that good old spare tyre around your ribs, even worse if it's around your chest because then you can look forward to heart disease and stroke with a bit more certainty.  It's not the kind of stroke most men are hoping for either.  There's the multitude of cosmetic issues women face in trying to remain somewhat attractive as they battle the ageing beast: droopy boobies, hail damage to the thighs, wrinkly faces that don't unwrinkle anymore when you stop smiling (or yelling at each other).  Then of course you've got the aching limbs, the creaking dodgy joints, our Lady Di Abetes, and our rampant friend, Jack the Dancer to contend with.  No wonder most of us are addicted to something which enables us to leave our minds behind, even for a short time.  By the time you've hit 50, often your mind has taken all it can handle.  Or so it seems.  Mine went AWOL years ago but I'm expecting it back someday soon, and I will keep checking for it.  But it's enough to make you want to pull your knickers up over your head to give yourself an instant facelift, go to the RSL and pretend you can find yourself a partner there.

But maybe, just maybe something wonderful can happen.  Maybe, just maybe, you can connect with your inner self in a way that you haven't been able to in your first half century, and stop hunting externally for the ultimate cure.  Perhaps we can learn to love and nurture ourselves.  And maybe the only truly pressing thing is to follow your dreams, in the time you have left.  Maybe that's what puts the biggest grin on your face, and makes your spirit soar, when you're no longer looking for ladybugs.. and then one day you wake up, and they're crawling all over you...

(to be continued when I hit Sixty and Single)...

Cazhow Productions ©

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Finding My Veganity

Many would be surprised to know that I've been flirting with the idea of a vegan lifestyle for quite a while, but importantly I do say flirting with, and ONLY that.  Because while the ethical pull of becoming vegan is feeling ever stronger, the practicality of it literally scares the crap out of me.  It simply does not seem doable, certainly not in any lasting sense.  It feels akin to a restrictive diet where you eat bananas and soup every day to drop a few kegs, and then revert back to your good ol beer swilling, family block chomping lifestyle so you can have the joy of watching your waistline regain yet again those pesky five kilos you almost murdered yourself to take off, just only twice as quickly on the rebound.

I had mentioned the idea (cautiously) to a couple of friends.  And my teenage daughter.  The latter simply laughed her head off.  The friends were more polite.  Really?  Why?

Why indeed.

*Warning: mounting soapbox right about now - scroll past if easily offended - it's only a couple of paragraphs and then I promise to lighten up again :-)*

Why, when there is all this glorious tasting and mostly unhealthy food in the world, here for the taking?  Why, when it will all continue on anyway, regardless of my own personal deprival?  The slaughter, I mean.  The animal farms, the pain, the suffering, the horror.  The murder and torture of sentient beings, just like us, but BY us.  So we can eat them, feed on their breast milk, turn it into cheese and cream and a million other fatty things – and while we're at it, let's pump these creatures full of hormones, full of grain and feed, so they swell up to twice the size, so that month old chicks can carry the weight of year old hens, their little undeveloped chick legs buckling under such a weight, but all in the name of making a good feed for us, a profit for the business they involuntarily became part of, with no contract and no cooling off period.  Because they'll be cooling in the poultry case at Woolies before too much longer.

The male chicks of course don't even get a look in; fed (alive) at a mere 24 hours old straight into a mincer, as simply waste product, no use because no money can be made out of their skinny little souls.  A hen feminist's dream perhaps…

But a loving universe's nightmare… and so it goes on…

But of course – we all need a good feed.  Look around.

Animals Australia is the organisation one can find out anything they need to know about the brutal industry our animal based food issues from, and I'm not going to cover it here – simply because I'd decided at the outset this was going to be a humorous, personal piece about someone pretty damn unlikely (ME) becoming vegan.

*Dismounts soapbox on other side, reaches for cold beer to counter sweat beads on forehead*

So.. having looked at all the reasons (better health, respect for animals, ethics, kindness, and of course environmental concerns), and with the idea still doing uneasy back flips in that part of my head I reserve for "Later, dude!" I went to collect my mail yesterday, and in it was – you wouldn't believe it – "The Vegetarian Starter Kit."

And before you say I must have ordered the damn thing, or signed up online or something whilst trawling holidays or cars or porn or what have you, this magazine – and a pretty glossy one at that – came unwrapped, unaddressed, and with a colorful front cover depicting two young smiling happy slim people serving up all manner of mouth watering offerings.  And without a pig in sight, human or on the table.

Get Ready To Change The World! it proclaimed; and as I read further, I gleaned the intelligence of chickens, pigs, cows, even eggs (I guess I've seen people who aren't much smarter).

I read further: my health was about to change too.  Vegans weigh in at up to 20% lighter than their meaty counterparts.  I frowned at this; I need to think of a fat vegan I've come across somewhere to refute this.  Damn, struck out.  Sticking that thought into the overcrowded "later dude" section of my cranium, I read on.  My heart was going to thank me too, and worrying about diabetes – well, worry no more.  My pancreas was now on my side.

My liver, however, continues to tremble – because the nectar of the Gods (beer) is still on the menu.  It had to be.

"Green your diet," was the next page.  A table of fascinating facts about how much land is cleared, how much expenditure occurs in order to raise enough grain and provide enough grazing for our food industries; grain that could literally FEED THE WORLD, were there not all these deliberately farmed production animals to pump up to put on our plates.  Greenhouse gas emissions – yeah well we're in a world of hurt there, and we all know it – but animal agriculture creates more of those than all of the world's transport industries combined.  Whew!

And of course there's the outright cruelty aspect, and we all know it, whether we accept it or not – so that's not the subject of this piece.  But (for me) it's the main reason these animal products now sit very uneasily in my fridge, and my consciousness.  And just because I don't directly SEE what happens to those animals does not make it acceptable for me.  Not anymore.

The rest of the book is about the glorious types of food we DO get to enjoy, the seeds, the nuts, vegetables and fruits (of course), grains, legumes (beans!) and soy products.  And then of course if you're hellbent on mimicking your previous food choices, you can delve into the wonderful world of quasi meats, cheeses, milks, yogurts – pretty much everything these days has a vegan counterpart.  Even chocolate and ice cream, sausage rolls and hot dogs!  Not that they necessarily recommend going there, because like their meat based counterparts, these items are generally full of additives, salt, sugar and the like.  Unprocessed in all things is always best, and vegan fare is no different.

So.. what do you do when you read a magazine like that?  Well, in the past I would have slung it on the table and raided the fridge for those last couple of rows of Cadburys.  But today – I went shopping.  I did a VEGAN shopping (puzzlement all round, especially in my own thinking centre! Thinking centre says "WTF is she doing NOW???")

Of course, I chose Coles. I have a Coles fetish which I reserve for special occasions because it's too expensive, the range is too tempting, and in Noosa at least, it's too bloody far!  I figured Coles would have the best range; and I knew it was going to be expensive anyway.  It wasn't.

Having considered veganism for a time, I'd long identified what were going to be the problematic areas for me.  Most meats I could happily live without; the lamb, the veal, the pork – make that all pig products really – and to a lesser extent, the beef.  The chicken I was gonna miss.  Eggs?  Meh.  I'd be lucky to eat a dozen a year anyway.  And seafood has never rocked my boat, so that one's easy also.

But the CHEESE.  Oh God, don't take my CHEESE!  I literally have cheese fear, and to a lesser degree, milk panic. Chocolate terror.  I guess they're all related.  Certainly these thoughts would also inject panic into those cows whose lives exist solely to provide me with those menu items.  But it's got to involve sacrifice, or I would have done it years ago – and that means, the cheese, as I know it anyway, has to go.  Ditto the milk. Gulp, and the choc.

It's not all bad though.  Because I do in fact eat WAY too much cheese.  I'm a cheese fiend.  And it's certainly not a healthy thing to over indulge on.  I'm a cheesaholic.  Take it away, for I cannot have just one cube.  And I'm not even gonna LOOK at the cheese substitutes because I know they will never measure up.

In fact it wasn't till I was perusing the cheese section that I realised how many, many types of cheeses there are, all neatly packaged, well lit, almost SMILING at me from the dairy case.  Are you noting my obsession yet? 

I sighed and headed over to the unmilk section to see what was on offer in the way of milk that isn't in fact milk.

Rice milk, almond milk, soy milk, coconut.  Well, this one's easy.  I've tried soy (hate it), hate all things coconut (always have), and not big on almonds (but I'm gonna start eating them anyway).  So it's got to be rice.  Good old inoffensive rice.  How bad can it be?

With the cheese and the milk sorted, I then turned to other pressing issues, like how to have snacks at a party I'm throwing in a couple of days time.  I settled on some rice crackers packed with grains, and an haloumi spicy dip.  The dip was discounted, I had no idea what a haloumi was, but I figured it was worth a go.  Ah, but chips!  I can eat chips!  I almost ran for the chip aisle, and in no time was reaching for my favourite, chilli and sour cream… and sour cream… Doh!

Cheese Twisties, anyone?

Double doh.

Even the ubiquitous corn chips are out - they have some sort of cheese flavouring in the ingredients list which unfortunately seemed to leap out at me before I could bag them in sweet ignorance.  Triple doh.

Having settled on poor pure old sea salt, I then continued with the rest of my shop.  I bought vegie burgers, dried fruit, nuts, vegie juices and lots of fresh produce.  My basket looked like some alien had slipped it into my hand as a joke, and taken my glorious Tim Tam and ice cream filled basket off to enjoy in front of their TV on Planet Unvegan.  But I virtuously proceeded to the checkout, paid, and drove thoughtfully home.

It only really occurred to me, as I was trying out some late night crackers and that haloumi (which I hated and promptly threw out) that I had in fact eaten vegan all day: a banana for brekky, a huge salad for lunch (but only to dispose of the salad before it went out of date) and now these slim pickings for a late dinner.  And I hadn't even thought about it.

So without troubling myself with thinking further about it, or putting pressure on myself to start this vegan lifestyle proper in the morning, I decided to just feel it out come morning.  And I did.

I got up this morning, and reached for both the rice milk and the dairy.  I wanted to taste them both, get a comparison, before dumping a whole heap of the former over my cereal, rendering it inedible.

First I tasted the dairy.  Yep, plain milk has never been my thing.  Tastes like nothing, bland, boring.  A useful accompaniment to other things like coffee and cereal.  Then I tried the rice milk.  Cautiously.  It looked different.  Not as white, not as bleached and pretty.  It had no smell.  And it tasted pleasant, if a bit sweet.  So I poured it over the cereal, started eating – and truth speaking, if I didn't know, I would have thought I was eating cereal with a low fat milk, because that's what it looked and tasted like.  All okay.  I'll try it in the cappuccino machine shortly; if it froths, we're onto a keeper.

In finishing for now, I'm not stating boldly thou shalt be vegan as of yesterday, even if I in fact am vegan right at this moment.  I've made too many brash statements in the past, and this one is a biggie.  But I will certainly be feeling my way out of omnivority (what a word, I just made it up!) and moving towards full-time herb, Herb.

See ya in the vegie aisle!

Carol X

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 © Carol Howden