Louisa Simmonds

I’ve been suffering from writer’s block recently. I’m hoping it’s not terminal but being the hypochondriac that I am, I’m sure it probably is.

Anyway, it’s not that I can’t think of subject matter, it’s just that I seem to have mis- placed my humor somewhere and so it worries me that My Midlife Mayhem may turn into bleh.

My choices, in such dire circumstances, are either to drop the blog immediately like a hot brick and step back from it for a while, reflect and then kill myself, or carry on and hope you’ll forgive my sub-standard prose. If I step away and self-evaluate, I may never come back, rather like what has happened in my relationship with exercise.

So I’ve decided to carry on in the face of adversity, and pray I don’t lose my authenticity, my three loyal readers or bore the pants off anyone.

Please bear with me at this difficult time.

In an attempt to help me get through this dry spell, I’m trying something new called The Good, The Bad, and the Fugly on Sundays, a sort of diary of my week, where I will mull over the highs and lows of the previous seven days.

Warts n’all.

So here’s The GOOD!

Kurt performed at a local fete last Sunday. If you are a roadie parent you’ll know the trials and tribulations of being a minion to your Prima Donna spawn, just for those few magic minutes on stage. Unfortunately last Sunday’s conditions did not bode well for the artist formerly known as the Devil’s Spawn. It was a stinky hot day with a       strong breeze and when we arrived at the venue we discovered that the ‘set-up’ did not meet Kurt’s professional expectations. Minion 1 was quickly dispatched to source cabling while Minion 2 was forced to lug heavy equipment from one side of the performing area to the other until the sound was comparable to the Concert Hall at the Opera House.

By the time Kurt was ready to perform, the breeze had developed into a howling tempest and his audience was reduced to parents, the local homeless and a few market stall holders frantically holding onto their gazebos. But the boy performed through it, ever the true professional, sweat pouring down his face, voice driving through the gusts, humor (‘I love you, Glastonbury!’) shining through.

For that 30 minutes, the previous sixteen years of pain was almost worth it.

Sometimes ‘tiredness’ and ‘life’ get in the way of living. My bestie and I are professionals at using exhaustion as an excuse for not catching up, and it makes it even easier to opt out now there’s distance between us. And I miss her. But our guilt finally aligned this week and she organized for us to go for a swim together.  We gossiped and we laughed and we had a riot at the end of the pool and then undid all our good work and calorie loss over a bottle of wine and chips. Spirits lifted.

Seeing my boy in his first suit for his formal next week made me realize just how much he’s growing up. I’ve been sworn to secrecy about the fact that we bought the trousers and shirt from Target and when I mentioned making his partner’s corsage, he gave me THAT look that only a teenager can perfect.

The discovery of a new hangover cure in the form of pancakes, warm red fruits and maple syrup.

And I discovered this song by Ellie Goulding.

And the BAD!

Watching the barber shave off Kurt’s Samson locks and a very different boy emerge. A boy that now looks suspiciously like how the old man used to look – and I’d been worrying all that time about the milkman!

Kurt’s visit to a new therapist where he accused me of stealing his limelight. He has since asked me not to come in with him next week as apparently the therapy is for him. My question is, who needs it most?

Aforementioned writer’s block.

Being forced to replace my favourite cereal with bran and reduce my glass of wine to a standard measure in an effort to release the extra 2 kgs of weight that no amount of ‘thinking about exercise’ will shift.

Another culinary disaster in the form of homemade garlic bread that Kurt assured me would be lovely ‘for people who didn’t have taste buds’.

The onset of pre-Christmas anxiety.

And then there was The FUGLY!

Falling UP the stairs this time, and creating a map of bruises on my upper arms that make me look like a victim of domestic violence.

Stealing NC’s bronzer and applying it in the dark before meeting new clients.

Finally having to resort to comfortable but fugly, sensible sandals for the first time in my life and secretly wallowing in them like a pig in mud, (in spite of my shame at betraying the sisterhood). 

Swilling beer from a bottle in the car en route to a party to ease my social anxiety, while the old man looked on horrified.

The eruption of new facial hair. NC asked if I was raising money for Movember.

How was your week?

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2. Fed Up Of The Menopausal, Middle-Aged Woman Stereotype? (mymidlifemayhem.wordpress.com)
3. Wittner

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