On my bucket list is it’sm #70: ride on an electric scooter.
Right place, right time. I’m visiting my daughter and grandkids in Queensland. My son-in-law, CarMan, is home this week from his FIFO(Fly In Fly Out) job as a mechanic and truck driver at the mines in Mackay. He has an electric scooter. Last night he plugged it in.
This afternoon I donned my granddaughter’s bike helmet and CarMan showed how to put it on the lowest gear. Button on the left, press, do a bit of scoot to kick off, and I wobbled down the street.
After a couple of goes up and down the street, including an “OMG, I’m in the bushes!”, I got brave enough to ride around the block. Then CarMan turned it up to second gear, and I zapped around the block again.
My hair actually streamed back a little, and my dress hem flapped. I felt so speedy and smart, and…well…scooty.
I was a bit wobbly the whole way, but I did it.
The urge to go faster was on me, and took me right back to my first ever solo drive in a car. I dared, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, press the accelerator up to 70kmph, just for a few hundred metres. I felt wild and scared then. And now.
I knew if I fell, I’d abraid badly. I have enough problems with my 60 year old arm skin thinning. One scratch and it inflames and starts to tears. So while I had the need for speed, I hopped off, and let my grandson have a ride.
I couldn’t stop smiling. I did it. I rode on a scooter.
Bex powders were developed and sold in Australia in the 20th century. They were marketed to women under stress as “why don’t you have a cup of tea, a Bex, and a good lie down”. So much so that the saying entered the language and means ‘chill out’. It’s not heard so much these days.
(Bex was taken off the market when it was shown to be addictive [caffeine content], and to cause kidney failure.)
Mum always had a packet of Bex in the house. I was given the powders as a kid when I had flu aches and pains. They tasted bitter, even in cordial or sweetened tea. I never had enough to become addicted, and my kidneys seem to be in fine form.
Out of my mouth today came the words “I need a cuppa, a Bex, and a good lie down.”
I was, and am, exhausted after databasing poems for 2 hours this morning, then making writing offerings to journals for 2 hours this afternoon. I slumped and uttered the Bex incantation. Then had to explain it to my support worker, Emily the Blonde.
I’m not at all nostalgic for actual Bex. I do like the idea of a cuppa and a lie down, though.
Back to burlesque class last night. I started Burlesque Basics at week 7 out of 8 classes for Term 1. So, last night, I did Lesson 1 for Term 2, and will continue up to lesson 6.
Dear Twitface Satya: if you are going to eat dozens of Easter eggs for weeks on end, and then scarcely move your body for a week, should it be a huge surprise that you hurt everywhere, and creaky like a dunny(outdoor toilet) door?
It was Bump and Grind night. All my belly dance training came to the fore and was subverted into:
Hip circles = slow grind
Hip flick = bump
Pelvic tuck = part of the griiiind
There are ‘stir the soup’ grinds, and ‘grind coffee’ and ‘rollercoaster grind’.
None of the moves were unfamiliar to me. Done it all for years, albeit with my legs much closer together, and the focus being on the whole hip circle, rather than the tuck, and exaggerated ‘push your booty out’.
Belly dance – keep it nice. Burlesque – down and dirty.
The only part of me really sore after class was my knees. Dammit that the dog’s Cartophen shots have been shown to not be effective on humans! I’d be at the vet in seconds. Here mate, put some painkiller into my knees like a good bloke.
Fortunately, I just missed a tram, and the Epworth Hospital is opposite Maison Burlesque. I had time to buy Panadol Osteo, Nurofen, and some joint gel at the in-house chemist, before getting the next tram.
I sat there popping 4 pills like the pain relief junkie I am, then stinking up my part of the tram by applying generous amounts of arnica and wintergreen gel to my knees.
When I got home, I drank my magnesium drink like a good girl, made sure I had extra water, and I was tired enough to get a decent sleep.
Today, I’m good. In fact, good enough and ‘shook the stress out of me’ enough to have a wee boogie to some Housework Music I have on my Spotify playlist(Rock Around The Clock, The Twist, Peppermint Twist, Viva Las Vega, Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride, Papa Oom Mow Mow).
I now have painkillers and gel permanently in my dance bag, along with my dance shoes, a sweat towel, and a packet of blister Bandaids.
Of course I’m going back next week. Dance is hard. It always is at the level I’m playing at. Which is ‘have fun, but sweat hard, and learn’.
Progress: only called myself ‘fat’ and ‘old’ three times last night.
Goal: reduce this to zero, and reduce all other derogatory self-talk, and replace with neutral talk, or better yet, self-loving and self-respectful talk.
I’m astonishingly fit and agile for 60. I’ve worked hard to be here, and deserve all the fun I can get.
A few weeks ago, I began taking burlesque classes. And lo, there was another older lady in the beginners class. BurlGirl is 67, and we got on like a house on fire. After two classes, we exchanged phone numbers.
BurlGirl lives in the USA, near Louisville, Kentucky. She is peeved that there is no burlesque classes within 3 hours’ driving of her house, so she is settling for belly dance until she gets back to Australia at the end of the year(she hopes). She manages a great deal of her seasonal affective disorder(SAD in the winter) by visiting her daughter in Melbourne.
She invited me to brunch/breakfast at a cafe up near Melbourne Museum. I’d never been there before, so stressed about finding it for about 3 days beforehand. And when I realised it was not in the city centre, I mentally added half an hour onto my travel time. Why I always think that the Royal Exhibition Buildings, and Melbourne Museum are at least a half hour walk from Parliament Station is beyond me. They’re a six minute walk.
And because I was fretting about getting to somewhere new, my anxiety ramped up, and even though I’d set my alarm for 7am instead of 7.30am, my mind woke me at 5am. “Is this early enough? You don’t want to be late, you know. You’ll have extra time if you get lost.”
Because I caught a train during peak hour, it was express from Box Hill to Richmond. I found the cafe at 8.45am and it wasn’t even open yet. So I sat in the chilly Exhibition Gardens and read FANGIRL until it opened.
It turns out BurlGirl and I have had similar life experiences. Not identical in details, but we’ve both had failed marriages, have grown kids, and grandchildren. Both worked a bunch of jobs. Both struggled as single mothers. Both had higher education(her much more than me).
Our conversation rollicked across 25 stages in 2.5hrs. She had a big breakfast of eggs, bacon, smashed avo, tomato. I had a morning tea of sourdough toast with butter and Vegemite.
“Most of my Australian friends are much younger, because they’re my daughters friends,” she said. “It’s so good to have a friend my own age.”
“Yay for remembering Apollo 11 on the Moon,” I said.
We are going to keep in touch while she’s back home, and send each other emails and texts, and short videos of our dance journeys. And when she comes back to Australia, hopefully we can enrol into a burlesque class together and have some more laughs, and spend a few minutes after class coating our knees and shoulders with Aches And Pain Relief balm.
And that’s my social battery gone down to 10%. I need to recharge for a day or so now.
In the past week, I’ve had the book FANGIRL presented to me on 2 bookshop shelves, and 2 op shop shelves. I figure the universe wants me to reread it. For some reason. I don’t know why. It’s a simplistic coming of age story with an autistic-coded main character, who is wrapped up in a Harry Potter-esque set of books.
So, I succumbed to starting the reread late this afternoon. I’m 20 pages in. Already I’m a bit over the character.
I sometimes think that because 1960-70’s society, schooling, and the world demanded that my autistic traits be squashed down, and it’s likely any tics and fidgets were slapped out of me, that I’m impatient with younger people with autism who have not had that experience, and we’re in fact supported. ‘Indulged’ yells my old near-boomer self. ‘Get over yourself!’ ‘Finish growing up!’
The character has social anxiety, safe foods, obsessions, feel safe only at home where nothing changes, and resents her twin sister for wanting something different.
But, she’s afraid of the student dining hall, and thinks she might be able to survive on muesli bars and peanut butter all term if she’s careful with her supplies, and I have no sympathy.
Despite me planning to take a couple of tea bags with me tomorrow when I have brunch with a friends. Just in case there are crappy tea choices. Despite me planning to take a little tub of grapes.
Despite me estimating that an American girl in her first year of college is 17, and thinking of me at 17, absolutely shit scared of the thought of leaving high school(which I hated) and going to uni.
Why am I so impatient with her? Why do I sneer at her comforts?
The intolerant part of me thinks that because I had to do it so tough, a similar person/character should do it that way too. Why should she have it easier? I didn’t.
Good gods, I’ve turned into “I had to live in a gutter, and walk 50 miles to school in a blizzard”.
This all reflects back on a new conversation I’m having with myself about treating myself kindly, speaking kindly to myself, and allowing all the parts of me to have their say. Not just the Military Commander, Gladys the critic, and Kenneth the Art Critic.
So, this book has come along to highlight where I’m being hard in myself, and still high masking. Okay, universe, I’m listening.
Over the past year, Vermont South Special School has been getting a glow-up, to use the modern vernacular. A ten million dollar grant, and the current principal squeezed every dollar like mad to get as much done for her charges as possible.
ThirtiesPerson attended this school 1998-2003(I think) before going on to Heatherwood Special High School, and graduating 2010. (Mental maths: 1992 + 18 = 2010, okay that should be right. 2010 – 6 = 2004. I think it all adds up to 6 years at VSSS and 6 at Heatherwood, 3 at Princess Elizabeth Junior School for the Deaf, and 3 at Taralye Early intervention centre)
I was coming back from shopping today and saw two of TP’s teachers from years gone by. I screeched to a halt and ran over to hug them. VSSS is 50 years old this year, and they had the celebration today. Cath McDonald(sports teacher) and Dee Tebbutt(TP’s first teacher) were there, and both were thrilled to see me. Now, Cath only retired last year, so she has seen TP on and off over the years. But Dee hasn’t seen TP for quite a long time. When I told her that they were now going on for 32, and that their older sister, ThirtiesGirl, was married, with three kids and living in Queensland, her face was very still for a moment, and I think she slumped a little. Way to go Satya, making someone feel old.
Me, I was feeling sprightly because I have seemingly lost a whole 1.5kg with very little effort on my part, and my new naturopathic regime is putting a spring in my step. I also picked up a bunch of laybys today and have new clothes.
I wished I’d had time to catch up with Dee properly, but she was on her way to somewhere, and so was I.
Anyway, thankyou for everything, Dee. You certainly got TP’s number early on, and worked out when they’d switched their hearing aids off. You got them on stage for the school concert, and when I asked you what TP did during Show and Tell, you said: “Oh, I get them up. They stand there, leaning on my chair, and look at everyone. Everyone looks back, they applaud, and then TP sits down.” That’s my non-verbal person.
The Beverly Hills Diet; Dukan Diet; Paleo; Keto; Fast 800; CSIRO diet; Dr Gundry; Dr Axe; Mediterrean diet; Noom; Isogenics; Isotonix; Atkins; South Beach; 5:2; The Zone; Grapefruit diet; Raw food.
I could go on.
We have a world of abundance in western culture. A mountain of food in the home, at the shops, in cafes.
Very rarely do we meet up to walk, go to the gym, swim together, or just watch a sunset. It’s a coffee date, a cafe catch up, business breakfasts, dinner parties, picnics. Food everywhere.
I consult with a naturopath, a regular GP, an integrative doctor, recently a sleep specialist, and also see a psychologist.
The first four have outright said that I should lose weight.
For the record, I am: 60 years old, 157cm tall(5’2″), and I weigh 71kg(11.1 stone). I have Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, an artificial shoulder, some arthritis, some food sensitivities, leaky gut syndrome, autism, ADHD, and Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. I wear glasses, and my genotype is Celtic: I am built like a peasant who is made to milk a cow and carry it uphill afterwards. I have an hourglass figure, and yes I do weigh more than I would like. I have cellulite, very fair skin, freckles, and dark brown eyes.
I am on an anti-depressant for low-moderate depresssion that used to be chronically bad, and for anxiety that has gotten worse with age. It can make you gain weight. I am on a blood pressure medication that makes you gain weight. I take a 1/2 sleeping pill, which can make you gain weight.
I do yoga, belly dance, walk, Active Seniors at my gym, and have taken on burlesque. I swim on occasion, and last weekend, I kayaked for an hour. I can dance for over two hours at a retro band concert. I am mostly stronger than ThirtiesPerson.
I have been told that if I lose weight:
I will sleep better, although sleep apnoea is linked to weight gain. (Tackle the sleep apnoea in ways that my neurodiversity can cope with, and when I get better sleep, watch my weight go down. Not the other way around, fuckers.)
my knees won’t creak. (Weight loss = arthritis reversal and cartilege regrowth now?)
my feet won’t ache. (Weight loss doesn’t sort out high arches.)
I won’t sweat so much when I work out. (It’s called working out. Sweat, and buckets of it is normal.(
I won’t need anti-chafing gel for chub rub. (Well, at least that would be nice.)
I won’t need specialist bras for my size 16F boobs. (I have needed specialist bras as a 14D.)
My mental health will be better. (Will it? Will the weight loss be all about shedding 25 years of trauma, and suddenly having ThirtiesPerson not dependent on me? Will it be about shedding those unexpected 60 kilos of offspring that have so far caused 31 years of stress?)
I won’t crave sugar. (Oh honey, I will always crave sugar. It’s one of my few pleasures.)
I’ll look so much better. (Better than what exactly?)
Uh huh. These have been said to me mostly by women, medical professionals who are in their late 30’s. They are Asian, have Mediterranean background, and all are of slim build in the first place. None have gone through menopause.
I went to one doctor about an ear infection and before we could get to the matter at hand, I was weighed, and it was suggested I pop next door to the weight loss clinic. Only after she’d written me a referral did we talk about the fact that I’d just thrown up in her sink from the ear infection.
I AM SHITTED OFF AT FAT PHOBIA, AND FAT SHAMING. Walk five miles in my shoes before you say it’s the solution to everything.
To add salt to the wound, starting burlesque classes has brought up all my horrible self-loathing, body-hating, cruel self-talk, and sudden thoughts of crawling into a hole to die. Burlesque is a long-term investment in working through my body issues to be okay with who I am. Which is part of a larger working with the help of a psych to be okay with all of me.
I have had the thought of printing off this post, along with my ‘raw, honest pics’ that my offspring took of me this morning, and sending it to each and every one of the medical women I see. Along with a note ‘before you tell me I’m fat, how about you ask me more about my life, my age, my activity levels, and where the stressors are?’
And now it’s back to fruitlessly rubbing coconut oil and grapefruit essential oil on my thighs, because of the slip factor, and because grapefruit can help with fluid retention, and wake up the body cells to do their optimum. Grapefruit oil, do your magical thing! Turn me into Elle McPherson. Or at least help me be at home in this body.
This afternoon, PizzaBoy and I went to see the end of term show that Maison Burlesque puts on for its students. A chance for the various classes to perform to a keen audience.
Well, I’m a new student, so this was the perfect way to see what each class actually did.
Me, a week ago: I’m going to do every single class they have.
Me, this afternoon: Oh no, I have to take my bra off from behind. I can’t manage that, I don’t have the shoulder flexibility. Oh no, pasties. Why would anyone want to see 60 year old me in pasties? They’d be pointing at the floor. Aw shit, there’s lying on the floor and getting up. Crud, g-strings. I don’t want to wear bum floss. High heels – fuck no.
The litany went on, and I shrank into myself. No one, just no one will want 60 year old me on stage wearing a 14-16F bra, size 16 boy leg undies, barefoot, my belly hanging down over my undies, and my boobs sagging. I’m 157cm tall, I weigh 71kg, everything jiggles, and sags.
I love my hair and skin. Everything else….no.
Yesterday, my arse got stuck in the wide part of a fucking kayak.
I’ve never backed away from a challenge. Oh, I tell a lie. I did decide not to do stand up comedy, despite being good at funny storytelling. Why? Because hecklers and audiences can be cruel, especially to women comics.
Will I back away from this? There’s no one demanding I perform. I can simply take class after class, and then sit in the audience watching my classmates. I think I’d feel disappointed in myself.
I just can’t imagine who the hell would cheer if I got up there. I was very pensive all the way home on the train, turning all this over.
Yeah, first world angst.
And very real body hating. Thanks youth-worshipping society. Thanks supermodels. Thanks mass media. Thanks patriarchy.
I attend a weekly Active Seniors session at a small boutique gym in Nunwading, called Swift Fitness. The owner is a nurse, and qualified fitness trainer. It’s not your usual gym.
It’s a barefoot gym.
There are a minimum of cable machines and weights.
All exercise is done on a Naboso mat, which has little spikes on it to stimulate and soles of the feet.
A lot of work is done on ground to standing.
The clientele is 70% senior citizens.
The cardio and strength routines change every school term.
It’s a workout for mind and body.
No treadmills.
But yes to vibration plates.
After half a lifetime in and out of gyms, I now wouldn’t work any other way.
Off I went late this afternoon, onto the 75 tram all the way into Richmond, and Maison Burlesque. I was ready for my first class. I was armed with a very early dinner/snack of biscuits and cheese, and a carrot. I had a bottle of water, a novel, and Lorna Jane hot yoga baggy shorts.
The place was easy enough to find. Hop off the tram opposite Epworth hospital (hello Epworth! Remember me? Remember my 2022 December shoulder replacement. Look at me now, taking up burlesque, poi, and fire twirling.), walk down a bit, up a set of stairs and there I was in the foyer(shop) full of glitter and sparkle. It was like walking into a mini Seventh Veil from my 1990’s belly dance days.
I got chatting to a 67 year old lady who’s out here from Kentucky visiting her daughter(who is NOT coming to see Mum perform ever), and is sad that in two weeks, she heads home, where there is not hide nor hair of burlesque classes. So she is settling for belly dance. I taught her to shimmy while we waited.
It was gloves as props week, so we practiced posing, framing, peeling off gloves, ‘expensive fingers’, and elegant tossing of gloves. I had a mismatched pink pair. One came to mid forearm, the other nearly to my shoulder.
Yes, there’s a whole wall of mirrors. There’s also a wall of pink flamingoes, and a wall of pink fur.
Body issues: I’m too short(my new friend is shorter); I’m too old(new friend is older); I’m too cellulitey(can do nothing about that); my shorts are ugly(can do something about that. The store Siren Doll is across the road. Booty shorts here I come.); I’m super white(can do nothing about that. And there’s other things, but I’m here to have fun, and learn to appreciate my body again.
How did I feel? A little foolish making faces and hand frames in the mirror. A little despairing when I couldn’t remember 5 different poses. A little flummoxed at times. But also grateful that my belly dance years mean my body moves the right way. Amused that during the ‘see who takes longest to peel off two gloves’ I wasn’t the quickest, as one lady had time to refit her gloves thrice.
Next week may incorporate my enemy(choreography), chairs, fans, gloves, and whatever else the group has studied this term. Well, I’ll fake it till I make it. And worry more about arch support than my thighs rubbing together.
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