On living rurally

It was my husband’s birthday this week. We celebrated this Saturday with dinner out and tickets to a Matt Minglewood show.

Living rurally, this took quite some planning on our part. The fact that we’re old meant we had even more planning to do. Because we’re living so far from any major (or minor) metropolis, our entertainment budget hasn’t really been dipped into very much over the last 3 months. So this was gonna cost a little more, but we were going for a celebration of blow-out proportions.

I don’t think we really meant it.

A few weeks ago, imagining all sorts of shenanigans we would be getting up to, we purchased our tickets to the Minglewood show and the planning began. We would both drink to excess together. Normally we would have to take turns being the designated driver if we wanted to involve alcohol in our evening. This doesn’t hold much appeal for us, so we’ve never really done it. We miss alcohol. So this Saturday we planed to be reunited with it in style.

Now this event began at 9:30pm according to the tickets. I’m not ashamed to say that 9:30pm is my bedtime. Settle down with a book and read until you fall asleep time. Not drinking and cavorting time.

So, we had an afternoon nap. No way could I have made it without one. All part of the plan.

In order to drink to excess, we would have to figure out how to get to the venue. We could certainly drive there, but how would we get home? And how would we get back to get our car? Would the car still be there the next morning? We’re city people, you see. We haven’t got a clue how to manage many aspects of rural living. Another time, let me tell you about septic systems. But not right now.

We settled on calling a taxi. We called ahead to see how much it would be to get us to the big event. We carefully explained to the 12 year old girl who answered the phone at the taxi company, what our address was and where we wanted to go. In a voice reminiscent of any self-respecting valley-girl, she assured us that it would be less than 10 dollars. Thanking our lucky stars, we ordered one for that night at 7pm.

Well, the meter hit ten dollars in less than five minutes from the house. It’s a 30-minute drive to the venue. We watched with dread as the meter ticked over five cents every second or so. We cursed that 12-year-old girl silently as the meter ticked, and ticked, and ticked. We cursed ourselves for believing something that was too good to be true.

Needless to say, the travel portion of our entertainment budget was definitely hitting the blowout proportions. As we alighted from the car, we realised it would have been cheaper to stay overnight at a local motel.

While the event was supposed to start at 9:30pm, we alighted from the car at 7:25 pm. Also part of the plan. Due to our advanced age, it was incomprehensible that we could attend the evening’s festivities without a guarantee of a place to sit down. We’ll have dinner first, we said to each other. When we finish dinner, we’ll start renewing our relationship with alcohol. The time will fly!

The time did not fly. Dinner came five minutes after we ordered it. We were finished eating by 7:45pm!

So we started drinking. It was one of those nights where you just could not get a buzz on. But we kept on trying. We're troopers like that.

At 9:15pm, you could feel the excitement building. I could also feel my head pounding. I was developing a hangover before I finished drinking. This was all my idea, I was responsible for the blowout. It was a lot of pressure! The clocked clicked slowly past 9:30pm. No Matt Minglewood. 9:45pm…nope, nothing. Surely he’ll be here by 10:00pm? 10:00pm came and went, no Mr. Minglewood. We’re nearly asleep in our drinks by this time. We’re starting to get pretty cranky, I gotta admit it.

Finally, the star of the show arrives at 10:15pm and he’s on the stage by 10:30pm. All the waiting was worth it. We got our money’s worth from his first song. He rocked the joint.

By this time, I’m getting into the swing of things. I’m enjoying the social aspect of the night. I’m talking to fellow patrons, making new smoking buddies. Smiling and nodding politely to the excessively drunk and effusively loud ones. When the police arrived to take another fellow patron away in handcuffs, I was delighted. Oh, the excitement.

But alas, I did not have the staying power. As the clock ticked past midnight, and my coach turned back into a pumpkin, my head continued to pound. Somewhere around 12:30am, I knew I was beat. Defeated. I had only wanted to hear Mr. Minglewood play one certain song. I realised that he wasn’t going to play it until the very end, and I was going to miss it.

With resignation that this was the reality of growing older, we tried to call a taxi. This began another interesting portion of the evening. Taxi companies don’t seem to answer their phone at 12:45am on a Saturday night. I was starting to get concerned. A sweet waitress even held one outside for us. But my husband chose that moment to go to the bathroom and someone stole our ride from us.

We chose another strategy. We would wait outside and ask the next cab that pulled up to radio one for us. These taxi drivers have been working bar closing time for years, you could tell. Their strategy was to just nod and smile politely.

Finally, the impossible happened and the same driver that dropped us off, pulled up and offered to take us back home. We were eternally grateful. Our conversation with Barry the taxi driver was one of the highlights of the night. He was lovely.

Finally, many expensive lessons learned, we were back at home.

We had a good night. We really did. But it was such a hassle, I don’t think it’s something we would really do again. Not via taxi and not three hours before the main event anyway. We need to learn how to socialise rural-style.

Seems to me, a lot of the problem and expense was in trying to accommodate our reunion with alcohol.

We could probably eliminate alcohol from future events.

But I don’t think we really mean that.

Growing Old Gracefully

Gracefully, ha! What's graceful about it? For one thing, there's the hair. Facial hair. More than one kind. The first one to appear was a thick, black hair sprouting from my upper lip. A moustache! I was growing a moustache! As if that wasn't bad enough, they started popping out from under my chin. Fast forward to a full beard just like granny used to have. Just great. I am now the fastest plucker in the west. But that's not all. I go to sleep with all extra hair plucked to within an inch of its life and every few months I wake up with a thin, white hair about two inches long on my cheek. How is this possible? I swear it's not there the day before, it just magically appears in the morning.

And have you noticed that writing gets so much smaller as you get older? I hit 39 and suddenly started squinting at regular-sized print. By the end of that year I was the proud owner of my first pair of glasses. Now at the ripe old age of 43, I seem to have to hold the book pretty far way in order to make out the words. The size of the print in any book I want to read is now a serious consideration. I've avoided the large print section at the library, but it's only a matter of time.

I remember, way back in the 80's, staying up past 9:00 at night. Now, I twitch if I'm not in the immediate vicinity of my bed by 8:30pm. Pull an all-nighter these days? Well, ok if I set aside three days to recover.

I also find that professional people, you know, like doctors and lawyers, they're all starting to look like they're 12 years old. The other day, I went onto the liquor store and jokingly asked the 9-year old serving me if she wanted to see my ID. She never cracked a smile. She sent me a smouldering look that said, "Move on Grandma, you're so not amusing".

Now the night sweats, they're just charming. No, I didn't pee the bed, I just soaked the sheets with a lovely sheen of perspiration. Very attractive. I know I'm soaked with sweat during the night because I feel it when I get up 5 times to go to the bathroom!

This is bad. I think I'm going bald. I'm not a good-looking woman. My best feature is my hair. And I think it's falling out at an unnatural rate! I may have to fashion a comb-over, just like my father. This is very upsetting. I really feel bad for men who suffer from premature baldness. Is there such a thing as hair plugs for women? I don't have the kind of face where I'd look good if I shaved my head to cover up the fact that I was bald. Sinead O'Connor I am not. How do ugly women manage hair loss?

I have so much to look forward too, and possibly in the not-too-distant future. I really dread those wrinkles you get around your mouth that make it look like a bum-hole. How do you cope with that for goodness sake?

I think growing old gracefully is so hard because in my mind I'm still 24. And in this deluded mind of mine, I expect to look in the mirror and see a young, unlined, facial-hair free reflection. My mind is no longer connected to my body, I think. My mind thinks my body can go like the freakin' energiser bunny. My body reacts in a more age-appropriate manner and tells my mind where to go. Loudly and painfully.

Grow old gracefully? Maybe if you're skinny with a full head of hair and really good-looking with great skin. Plastic surgery, and lot's of it, seems to be the only solution to me.