Fat fingers…
It used to be that ageing only waived at me when I looked in the mirror.
Given my iron bladder and aversion to food preparation this happens infrequently.
Without the demands of urination and hand washing I generally get away with two daily visits to the bathroom; once in the morning when I’m too bleary-eyed and woolly to look closely at my reflection and once in the evening, when I tiptoe to the loo and clean my teeth in the dark so as not to disturb The Husband, usually sound asleep when I turn my brain off and the dishwasher on and climb the stairs for bed.
For all these reasons, the mirror and I are not close friends.
So now, as my fingers rest on the keyboard waiting patiently for my brain to feed them words, they shock me with their appearance.
They’ve become plump and the knuckles swollen and the skin, while not yet wrinkled, is loose. Faintly lined. Almost saggy.
…are good for something
My fiftieth birthday sailed by last month and I managed to avoid any major celebration or turgid introspection. I did walk away with a magnificent diamond ring, however, which winks at me now while I type, sitting high and haughty on my matronly mitt. In fact, it would look ridiculous on a younger hand. It deserves a proud perch, a wearer at ease in her sagging skin, as confident in her skillset as she is unsure of her shelf life. I am happy to oblige.
Reading is too
Tonight I finished a novel, an unremarkable but moreish book I bought at the airport and have devoured in 48 hours of sporadic reading. It was a delicious morsel of fluff which has, for the first time in months, curbed my screen addiction.
Instead of reaching for my phone to check social media channels and email accounts I’ve been curling up with this book, captivated by its characters and desperate to know how the story ends. And now that it’s finished I’m just as eager to write again. (Something other than emails and newsletters.)
Volunteering is unhappy work
When I stepped up to play a more active volunteer role with the sporting organisations I thought it would be a neat, symbiotic pastime.
I hoped the roles would both make use of and possibly hone my communication skills. Instead the work consumes me.
I sleep fitfully, my mind skipping from unfinished projects to disaster planning to succession planning and back again.
I wake early, heart pounding with all that I have to do that day and fall into bed at night anxious about all my unopened mail and unfolded washing.
The Husband harbours barely-masked resentment.
The Socialite and Ballerina are sulky.
As for all the half-written stories and half-formed story ideas that support my mantle of ‘writer’, they lie languishing with my yoga mat in the dustbin of good intentions.
Did I mention I’m getting fat?
About the airport.
The Ballerina and I have joined the husband for a week in Hong Kong.
He has a two-day conference here which coincides with school holidays, so we’ve tacked on a few days at the end to make it a holiday.
His brutish work pace needs regular speed bumps and The Ballerina is strung out after term three of year 11.
A week in a fancy hotel in Asia is precisely what all three of us needs.
Angela Bensted is a Brisbane-based freelance writer who likes to listen first and struggle with syntax later. She pitches stories to magazines and helps businesses produce compelling copy for print and online.