Goodbye Tension, Hello Pension!

As regular readers will know, I am inclined to spend far too much time and money trying to hold back the ravages of time, which are marching merrily across my face.

It’s a full time job.  If I don’t stop adding anti-ageing lotions and wrinkle removing potions to my nightly routine, I’ll soon have to start going to bed earlier just to get it all done.

My eyebrows need more attention than ever, since I plucked the snow white hair from one of them recently.  An unhappy day, by any standards.

And where my meanderings around the beauty halls of Dublin used to be about highlighting the green in my eyes and perfecting my pout, these days it’s all about skin renewal and youth radiance.

I’m a marketer’s dream.  And, of course, a gobshite.

I know it’s all a load of nonsense really.  I know we’re born with genes and cells in place that will age as they see fit, unless we opt for the surgeon’s knife or the adding of botulism.  And I’m not even sure that works. 

Having said that,  I have to say that this latest over priced serum seems to be holding its own.

I suppose it doesn’t matter if you have the visage of a teenager, once you start to creak and limp and risk breaking a hip getting into the shower of a morning. 

But for me the big news is this.  That maybe getting older is actually not so bad.  Could it be possible that I’ve been completely over reacting to life moving on, all these years?

I met a friend of mine lately, a gentleman around the age of sixty.  He took early retirement from our office a couple of years ago, and went off to pursue the next chapter of his life.

I’ll call him Jim, though that is not his name. To protect him, more than me.

If he’d simply resigned from the job, it might have been different.  But for some reason, when I hear the word “retirement” I think “relaxation.”  A time, after you’ve done a lifetime’s toil, to kick back and slide into old age, your days punctuated by lovely lunches, pleasant walks, and drinking at inappropriate times of the day.  To be honest, I think it sounds great.

But what if it's actually about not being able to afford heating in the winter and re heated food, and all your friends being dead?

Jim is an interesting person by any standards.  He always has a story.

For instance, two days a week, he takes care of his two year old grandson.  The other day, he brought the little boy to the park, to feed the ducks.

The swans came running up to them.  I’m not fond of swans.  We all know that they can break a man’s arm, of course.  But I’m not fond of them anyway.  Attention seeking feckers.  It’s like dolphins.  When I go to buy tins of tuna, there’s a happy little badge on each tin stating that it’s “Dolphin Friendly”.  I hate that.  Just because dolphins are cuter and make weird little noises. Is it ok to eat a tuna, just because they’re ugly,  as long as no dolphin is harmed?

I’ve been told that life is easier if you’re good looking, and it must be true.
Swans too.  With their snow white feathers, and making heart shapes with their two heads, and mating for life.  They’d make you sick.

 

Anyway, these swans, thinking they’re good looking and charming no doubt, came rushing up to push the ducks out of the way.  And the little boy, being a little boy, fell a bit in love with one of the swans, and wanted to give it a kiss.

I’m fairly sure a lot of adults would have explained that swans don’t like kissing boys, and maybe moved away.  Jim thought the best way to get a quick peck from a swan was to put a decent sized piece of bread in the child’s mouth and let the swan take it from there.
He cheerfully told me that he wouldn't have dreamt of doing this years ago, but that life gets less scary when you hit retirement.

Jim told me that he was fairly casually dating a number of women.  He was widowed a few years ago, in very sad circumstances.  After a long and happy marriage, Jim has decided that he has no interest in getting into anything serious again.

He says there’s great freedom in all the dating.  Nobody takes anything too seriously, and everyone gets to enjoy themselves.

I, being a rather cynical person, asked him whether all the women knew about each other. 

He confirmed that yes, they do.

I asked him if any of them minded.

“Oh yeah” he told me.  “They’re always giving out.”

That sounds like less fun.  I didn’t really know what to say, so I stood there slightly awkwardly.

“I don’t care” he told me. 

"I don't care" is a fairly overused phrase, in my opinion.  For example, I shout it repeatedly at His Nibs when he's trying to make some (usually perfectly reasonable) point that I don't agree with.  But in this case, I really, really believed Jim.  He doesn't care that all these woman are always giving out.

Now that’s the way to slide into old age.  He’s happy on his own, and has his children and grandchildren for company.  He sees a number of women, and if one gets too moany about his seeing the others, he stops dating her, on the basis that neither of them are enjoying themselves any more.

To be honest, Jim has charisma.  I doubt that I’ll have a bevy of gentlemen callers begging to take me out and feed me when I’m in my sixties. 

Obviously, I’m very hopeful that His Nibs won’t have legged it, and the mortgage having dragged to its miserable end, we’ll be in a position to go out whenever we want, as a pair.

But if Angelina Jolie or the likes of her has come and stolen him away, its nice to think that retirement isn’t all grey cardigans and beans on toast on my own.

Baby, Baby Not.

I was in a waiting room this week, when I heard a fascinating conversation between two complete strangers.
I have to assume that they were strangers, because they were asking each other questions that clearly suggested they hadn't spoken before.

So, these two women had just met for the first time.  They established the basics; names, what part of Dublin they were both from.  They quickly both said something derogatory about themselves, proving that they aren't big headed.  I think it's an Irish thing.

"Don't mind my hair, it's disgusting, I can't do a thing with it"

If these women had met in one of their houses, the conversation would have gone something like:

"Don't mind the state of this place, it's a complete kip, but I'm too lazy to clean it."

As far as I know, no Irish friendship can be nurtured until the parties have insulted themselves.

And so, in time, the conversation moved on to children.  One asked the other whether she had any, and the reply was that yes, this woman has two children.

The first woman then said 
"Oh God, that's really sad for you.  Your fun is over.  What did you have children for?"

The second woman looked a bit surprised and offended and said that she had wanted them, so she had them.  And she wasn't sorry.

"Christ, that was really selfish.  Just because you wanted them you just carried on and had them, even though the planet is completely over populated."

Then this over opinionated woman announced that it was  a great wonder that this woman had managed to hold onto her man through all this, given that the average couple has around 200 rows in the 365 days after their child is born.

The second woman said that she's glad she had her children, she's happy, and that it was her choice. 

There was a short but awkward silence, when the first woman suddenly turned to the second and suggested in a bright voice

"Maybe you could give them up for adoption, or have them fostered?"

And then the second woman finally took high offence and told the first to feck off for herself and mind her own business.

And in fairness, who could blame her?  This is a most offensive way to carry on.  The woman deserved a belt in the chops for herself.

Obviously I made this entire story up. 

Nobody in their right mind would ever say such a thing to a mother, would they?

And yet His Nibs and I are involved in the flip side of this conversation on a regular basis.

People meet us, and have brief conversations, and then say

"So, do you two have any children?"

And we say that no, we don't.  Because that's the truth.

And people tend to react in a limited number of ways.  Most people look sad and miserable and say something like

"Oh,  I don't know what to say.."
Which I don't mind, actually.  People don't know whether we've been trying and failed, or there was some other tragedy, or we didn't want them, or what the situation is.

But then they look at us quizzically and wait for an explanation. Bear in mind, these people are invariably strangers.  The ones who know us already know we don't have kids.  I don't see why we have to provide an explanation.

I know that they're waiting for a long and sad story of tests and procedures and stirrups.  There is no such story.

I know couples who've gone down the road of tests and procedures and stirrups.  I'm told that it's a really difficult, heart breaking thing to go through, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

But every single couple who don't have kids haven't gone through that particular hell.

So then they say it's a shame for us that we never had children. And we say that it's not sad at all, we never wanted them, we're happy as we are.

Some people just look bewildered and possibly slightly scandalised and move on with their lives.  Some, however, choose to keep up the conversation.

They ask us why we don't want children, and we say it was a conscious decision we made together and that we're happy with it.
Some beauties have then informed us that we must be unusually selfish not to want to share our lives with children.

Perpetuating this attitude, there was an article in the Daily Mail last week, the headline of which was 'Any woman who says she's happy to be childless is a liar or a fool'

I was enraged, obviously.  I'm not a liar.  Well, not about anything important.  I won't pretend I always tell His Nibs the truth about the cost of handbags, shoes etc.  But I don't lie about the big stuff.  And I don't like being called a fool either.

When people announce that we are selfish and self absorbed, I refuse to defend His Nibs and I.  We don't have to defend ourselves.  We have made a decision and stuck with it, and as my beloved  Dad would have said "Fuck 'em all".
I've never asked anyone to defend their choice to have kids, and so I won't defend my choice not to.  All I will say is that there's a great freedom to a life without naps or buggies or baby gates or babysitters.

I usually respond to these people with something  along the lines of
"Well, you can think we're selfish if you like, but we're not changing our minds"

Then I walk away and try to find someone more interesting and less annoying to talk to.

But I think it might be worst of all when people turn brightly to us and say that maybe it would be possible to adopt a child, or even foster.

That makes my teeth hurt.
I've just explained that we don't want children.  Why ask a question if you're not going to listen to the answer?
And if it's a matter that they don't believe us and think we secretly long for the aroma of wet nappies in our house, don't they think that maybe adoption or fostering could have dawned on us already?

Let's be clear.  I'm actually very fond of children.  We're lucky enough to have a number of them in our lives.  Nieces, nephews, friends kids,  and terrifyingly enough, the next one will be a great niece or nephew.

I love them, I think they're great.  I love the way small children think they are running the house, and indeed the world.

I love that the ones who don't like me make absolutely no effort to pretend that they do. 

And I can honestly say that I'm absolutely thrilled when each of them is born, I delight in the joy of the parents, and am fascinated by their miniscule features. I just don't want one for myself.

I have a small nephew, full of fun and divilment, who I frequently ask to give me his baby brother.  Just to annoy him, of course.
He always refuses.  And so I say "But I have no babies in my house to give me hugs".
I say this in a sad voice, and make what my sister would call my "Begging Face".

My little nephew has no patience with my perceived nonsense.  He raises his voice, and speaks slowly, as if dealing with an imbecile

"That's Normal!!"

Now, if only the eejits who think there's something wrong with His Nibs and I would take on some of his wisdom. 
He's five, by the way.

Feeling Sleepy

Ongoing trouble in Chez His Nibs and me.

You may or may not have read at the weekend that I have become a martyr to insomnia.

It doesn't suit me. 

It's been going on for about ten days now.  A friend of mine offered to give me a sleeping pill on Friday, but I refused on the grounds that they're addictive and make you groggy and if I'm not able to sleep, one of my great skills in life, I may as well give up the ghost now.

It never dawned on me that she might be offering for her sake more than mine.

I think it's possible that His Nibs is finally getting a bit afraid of me.

The whole bank holiday weekend passed, with me being absolutely no fun and getting grumpier and grumpier, and His Nibs doing everything in his power to avoid me, and probably saying private novenas that I'd go to sleep for pity's sake.

I arrived in work on Tuesday morning, in even worse condition than I'd been on the Friday. A good friend took one look at me, and suggested that maybe it was time I started thinking about dropping in to the doctor, just to get one or two sleeping pills to put me back on the straight and narrow.

I was caught at all times between shouting and bursting out crying.  I was staring at my computer as though I'd never seen one before.  I suppose poor Julianne could no more face the thought of a day in my company than His Nibs could.  Or, for that matter, no more than I could face the idea of listening to myself whinging for another day.

By half past nine, I was ready to give in, and went to the walk in doctor's surgery around the corner.
The doctor in there seems to be demented, and kept me talking for thirty five minutes.  Not, as you might imagine, about the reasons for my insomnia, but about how the roads in the republic are now better than those in Northern Ireland.  And I still didn't go asleep.

In the end, he gave me the prescription and sent me on my way.

I've never taken a sleeping pill before.  The doctor suggested that half a tablet might be enough, and in fairness the pharmacist said the same thing.  He also said I should take the tablet at least an hour before I wanted to go to sleep.

At around nine o'clock last night, I took half a tablet. I was in bed by half past nine. I wanted to be ready if I suddenly conked out, I didn't want to end up sleeping on the stairs. I assumed that once the tablet kicked in, I'd lose consciousness immediately.

His Nibs, interested in the experiment, decided that he should go to bed too.  He lay there in silence, perking up every few seconds to inquire whether I felt sleepy yet.  That was no help.

I don't know why I'm telling you this, but at a quarter to twelve, I sat up in the bed and burst into tears of exhaustion and temper.

His Nibs suggested I might like to keep the noise down, so I started shouting.  About how I'd probably never get a night's sleep again, how I couldn't be expected to keep up full time work in these circumstances, and that he'd better start looking for a better paid job to make up for my wages.  Then I turned around, took a good look at him, and announced that I didn't like him anymore, and I didn't know why he was still living in our house.

Fair play to him, he didn't announce that he didn't know why he was still there either.  If it was me, I think I would have jumped out of bed and started packing my bags. 

Instead, he remained silent for a few minutes, probably trying to resist the temptation to give me a belt in the chops for myself.  Then he quietly suggested that maybe I'd like to go downstairs and have a chocolate biscuit and a glass of milk.  And maybe the other half of the sleeping tablet. 

I'm not a fool.  Hysterical and all as I was, the thought of a chocolate biscuit soon quietened me down.

Suffice to say that I took him up on the suggestion.
I was asleep a few minutes later.  Thank God.  Six full hours later, His Nibs woke me to go to work.  Again, he managed not to kill me when he shouted upstairs ten minutes after we were due to leave, and I finally woke up.

Obviously the doctor only gave me a limited number of tablets.  I hope to Christ they work, and that my brain soon realises that I'm supposed to go to sleep when I go to bed.

But scarce and all as they are, I won't be messing about with any more half tablets, I can tell you that. 

No Sleeping Beauty

Guess what my latest carry on is?

Insomnia.

I don’t mean the type I used to suffer from when I was young and had fire in my belly and needed about three hours sleep a night, and actually couldn’t go to sleep if I’d had more than five hours the night before.

I mean proper, grown up insomnia.  The kind where you go to bed and demand complete darkness and silence, and practice all sorts of mind relaxation techniques on yourself and have various oils and unguents and potions that are supposed to assist a good night’s rest stinking up your room.

The kind where you don’t drink any caffeine after five in the evening and don’t do anything stressful and go for a nice walk and then have a warm bath and get into bed and get warm and cosy and think happy thoughts, and four hours later you’re still lying in the bed wishing the stupid night would end.

The worst night was last Wednesday.  I was wide awake, His Nis was making his incredible snoring noises beside me.

Obviously I gave him a good few pucks for himself.  And said “Stop Snoring” about four million times, in ever more hysterical tones.  The last time I woke him he became a bit hysterical himself and told me to stop whinging.  When I objected to this, he told me that he saw no reason for both of us to be up all night.  I couldn’t really argue with him.

He’d been patient, I suppose.  This was at half past two on a Wednesday night.  I’d started moaning at about eleven, moved on to banging my heels on the mattress to signify my unhappiness  at being awake.  My hope was that because I was sighing but not swearing, he might wake up and be nice to me and make me a cup of tea or something.  Nothing doing. When I banged my heels so hard that the dog almost fell off the bed, and His Nibs still pretended not to notice, I gave it up.

Eventually I stormed into the spare room.  I could still hear his snoring, of course.  I’d say the couple three doors down could hear it, but that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t sleep, to be fair.  I’ve been able to nod off despite his pig noises for twenty years. 

Still, it’s nice to be able to blame him for my suffering.

It was just insomnia.  I honestly don’t believe I got more than an hours sleep on Wednesday night.

On Thursday night I went to bed at eight fifteen.  This might seem over the top, but I allowed that I had to get to sleep before he went to bed, before the dogs started jumping on and off the bed, and he started turning on the light every few seconds to find important things like his car insurance documents or the spare house key.  Just because he likes to know where they are.

I threatened His Nibs.  I told him that fire was literally the only excuse I would accept for waking me.  And I wouldn’t be accepting any excuses about how it was an accident, or it was my own fault or anything else.  I said that if I was woken up, for any reason, the party responsible would be spending the night in the kennel in the garden.  I made it crystal clear that I included my husband in this threat.

He didn’t wake me.  In fact, he and both the dogs went directly to the spare room at bedtime.  (A practice which is strictly forbidden, as it happens.  It’s the only room in the house the dogs are not allowed in.  Obviously once I’m asleep anything goes).

I sat bolt upright in the bed at eleven o’clock.  My first thought was that I might go downstairs for a cup of tea, and maybe I’d forage around to find out if there were any biscuits His Nibs hadn’t found.  But I decided against it.  I knew that if I went downstairs I’d end up turning on the television, and lighting a cigarette, and I’d have to brush my teeth again, and that I was better off just going back to sleep.  It took quite some time.

I did nod off again in time to wake at two in the morning.  At that stage I was so wide awake that I jumped straight out of bed and went to the airing cupboard, to tidy it up and sort it out at last.

One look into our airing cupboard though, would drive anyone to go to bed and pull the covers over their head, and that’s what I did.

I was awake for another while from four till sometime after five.  Needless to say, when it was time to get up for work an hour later I was absolutely worn out, there was considerable risk of tears before I even got into the car.

I’m wrecked.  I’m absolutely exhausted.  Most days I find myself walking around like a zombie, even my gait has changed.   I wasn’t graceful in the first place, these days I’m thumping around like a cross elephant.

 And I’m like a nettle.  I have had to ask people in work not to speak to me,  because I’m so contrary I’m afraid they’ll all hate me by the time I finally get some sleep again.

And strange to say, when I see my friends and loved ones they’re immediately able to sympathise about the fact I’m still not sleeping.  Even before they ask me how it’s going.

This is despite the fact that once again I have fallen for the beauty counter patter and spent eighty euro on a bottle of shite with the actual blurb that “We can’t give you a good night’s sleep, but we can make you look as if you’ve had one.”

Eighty pigging euro.  It’s no wonder I can’t sleep at night.