Betty on a Box

I know it’s been a little gloomy here on the Box, but, well, that’s just how I roll. I mean, as much as I might try, I’m no Martha Stewart and the world’s simply not made of cupcakes.

I’ve been having a mid-life crisis for a few years, especially since JJ and I stopped trying to have a baby. And I’m here, sitting inside a cosy country house, the TV’s on DIG and I think they’re playing Ben Folds right now, so I’m pensive, wistful even. JJ’s out at a party – they have them here, in the country, and people here still take mushrooms. I’m staying in tonight but last night I went to see some local ladies in a saucy Burlesque show (photos below). My gorgeous galpal, Momo, is back in town. I’m ghostwriting an inspiring memoir for a holocaust survivor and I have a few story ideas in my back pocket, not to mention a little tale that was recently published in Litterbox Magazine. Work is busy and gives me a decent salary and security. The meds seem to be doing their job. We’re not lacking anything, really. Things seem pretty good, right.

So why am I so uneasy? Why am I still looking for more? I’ve said it before, one of my biggest fears is realising that this is it. That there’s nothing else. When I was an unruly kid at university, I remember saying that I had no regrets in life – no matter how stupid things got, whose car I threw up in, whose boyfriend I fucked, I knew that there was nothing to regret. Make a choice and believe in it, even if you’re wasted, make a choice and completely buy into it.

I’m starting to wonder if the problem with getting older is that we start to have regrets and that’s why people tend to become jaded and cynical. You see, the longer you’re around, you experience more highs and lows, tonnes of lows, so jumping into the next thing frightens the crap out of you.

It’s funny how I had no regrets in the past, and yet I did so many regrettable things. And now, I’m starting to have regrets and I’m not actually doing anything. But hang on, you say, look back on paragraph 2, you’re doing heaps. And therein lies the freaking conundrum. It’s a busy life, but where’s the substance? Why don’t I take big leaps anymore? I was talking to an old friend, Voodoo, last night about this very thing. He lives up here in the bush and JJ and I desperately want to leave the city and head down here permanently. But it freaks me out. What happens if we fail? What if we don’t like it? What if it’s just like being in the city, except here? 

I never used to worry about these things. 

“Hey JJ, let’s  quit our jobs and go travelling.”

“Hey JJ, I’m going to run a magazine.”

“Hey Betty, I’m going to open a record shop.”

“Hey JJ, let’s get a dog.”

“Hey JJ, let’s try IVF.”

“Hey JJ, let’s get another dog.”

“Hey Betty, I’m going to become a marriage celebrant.”

“Let’s buy a place in the bush.”

“Hey JJ, I’m going to be a life coach.” (yes, don’t laugh)

And this is what I think the midlife crisis is all about. We become afraid to make big choices. When we do, we buy sports cars – that’s how we expand ourselves when we’re too scared to make any real life choices. An expensive car is a safe way to show how much we’re moving forward.

I enjoy life’s slow pace these days, but I can’t help wondering if, should I live to 103 as I plan, will anything change along the way? Or is this it? Will I take chances again? Or is this the end?

And now for something a little less gloomy. Beautiful, in fact. The local ladies have formed a Burlesque troupe – Ripe – and they performed at The Convent Gallery on Friday night.

(sorry about the image quality – taken with my crappy phone)

Excuse me?

That’s correct. October 15, 2010. We’re down at the country estate, 1 hour west of Melbourne.

Did I mention that it’s the middle of SPRING? SPRING.

There was one inch of snow in Daylesford and a little less in Hepburn Springs. JJ and I were asleep in the loft when Papa bear woke us up in his dulcet tone:

“Oi, you two. Get up. It’s freaking snowing.” (ok, he may have actually said, “eh, yooi tooi, cumma onna, issa snowa”.)

“What’s he talking about?” I say to JJ.

“He says it’s snowing,” JJ croaks back.

We tumble down the new staircase and, lo and behold, it’s freaking snowing. It’s actually snowing, in October, an hour from Melbourne.

I mean, tulips and snow?

This past weekend, JJ and I went up to the Country – hitherto known as the Little Chalet (which is neither little nor a chalet but there are lots of gnomes in the garden and it doesn’t look like a cottage so it makes perfect sense…)

We went for a walk with the puppies.

JJ: Hey Betty, let’s turn left here.

Me: Sure

After a little while.

Me: Oh, I don’t think we’ve come this far before. How fun.

JJ: Let’s go this way.

Me (seeing a sign to the Blowhole): The Blowhole. We’ve never been there. How fun.

After a little while.

Me: So, do you think it’s much further?

JJ: I shouldn’t think so. Oh look, a sign.

So we walked on. And so did the girls, whose wee legs are only a couple of inches long and even taking into account that their have four of them, it’s still a lot of work. And have I mentioned the mountains?

Me: JJ, you didn’t say there would be mountains to climb.

JJ: It’s not Mount Sinai.

See, I’ve climbed Mount Sinai so that exempts me from every climbing anything again – hills, stairs, a ladder.

We arrived at the Blowhole and it was lovely. A big hole, in amongst some old mine shafts, that gushes water when there’s been rain. And there’s been a lot of rain.

When it was time to head back, I said: “JJ, we can’t possibly go back the way we came. You know how I hate that.”

JJ ( a little weary): Yes, Betty. I know how you hate that.

Me: And there must be a short cut. I mean, we turned left, then left, which is virtually heading back home, right?

Cut to a dramatic reenactment on A Current Affair:

The trekkers didn’t tell anyone that they were heading out to the state forest, nor did they bring any water or food. They could have died from dehydration but we lucky enough to be caught in a minor hail storm and they were able to collect some water. They did, however, refrain from eating any of the local fungi, which is known for its hallucinogenic and deadly properties.

Stone fences marking the site of old gold mines

The Blowhole – not very active

On the Tipperary Springs track

Oh yummy! Dinner

Dinner?

Definitely not dinner.

We found a civilised place for JJ to check if his GPS was working

Kangaroos at the Hepburn Springs gold course

What’s up skippy?

Your email:

 

Nearly three hours later, drenched and cold, we stumbled back home.

I went to a vintage shop in Daylesford recently. It was a cross between a lovely frock shop, Mexican curio cantina and antique dealer with just enough of a dash of dodgy earth-mother-fisherman-pants-flouncy baby-doll dresses. But anyway, in the back room, I discovered the costmetics area, complete with vintage perfumes. 

Years ago, when Frank and I used to sell our old stuff at the Camberwell Market (and Frank would make a killing from offloading designer work samples) I’d wander around to see what the other stall holders were selling and there was always someone who had a cosmetic basket filled with half-used jars of Oil of Ulan and empty Charlie perfume bottles. Who the hell buys that stuff? It seemed like they just grabbed everything they could see in that last minute dash out the door at five in the morning. 

So I wasn’t at all surprised to see that little area in the back room with its curious little bottles and jars. In fact, I was totally delighted by it. And there was that familiar cylindrical bottle with the blue and gold label. 

It was half full of yellow liquid. Sure, it could have been toxic but i felt driven to do what I did next. I picked it up. I removed the lid and then… I spritzed. Because you don’t spray 4711, you spritz. 

Talk about a serious whack to the nostrils! Was it the alcohol? Was it the passage of time? Was it just the fragrance itself? There are a few fragrances that bring me back to a certain time: 

• Felce Azzurra talc in a sachet 
• Impulse “perfume”
• Pino Silvestre cologne

And 4711. 

I swear I only spritzed once but as I walked back into the main area of the shop the “fragrance” lingered longer than I would have liked, or imagined. 

It certainly turned more heads than an Impulse ad.