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How likely is it, at our age, at this stage of life, that the best is yet to come?
Doesn't seem all that likely, does it. Although perhaps I am basing that on a bad combination of ageism and hunch. Maybe we should interview some really old people, and see what they reckon.
But if the best has been and gone, is it worth bothering? Chasing dreams and following rainbows, wanting love and laughter, passion and adventure, is that crazy? Aren't we all supposed to be mellowing out by now, settling down with pipe and slippers and beginning in earnest the slow alcohol-blurred slide towards hazy blandness?
Well, I have news. I am still kicking.
It may be the final death-throes of my high spirit, but I am making an attempt to do some new stuff and refresh things. Because one thing I'm certain of is that the best of my life as it currently stands has been and gone. So I'd better go stand somewhere different.
How does this manifest itself? Well, the running, for a start. I'm up to 28 minutes a session now. Ponderously slow, but I can speed up as I get better. I've signed up for an erotic fiction workshop, got another reading coming up and a poem coming out in an anthology next month.
I am working with the Pet Poet on a new set of material which will include singing, dressing up and burlesque (yes, we're signing up to learn that too...) Boggling. I know. Our plan is a simple one: to develop a set of material to sell to festivals, then spend next summer lolling in tents and hobnobbing in the backstage areas of various muddy places.
I am thinking of signing up for some advanced driving lessons, and have two night-time sponsored walks coming up in the next two weeks. After that, walking plans include the Grand Union Canal, the Pilgrim's Way (with the Poet and a new set of Canterbury Tales written on the way), and then why not the Via Compostela, or the Appian Way?
Rage, rage against the dying of the light...
I'm in uncharted territory now. Places in a relationship I never thought I'd be. Places for which there is no guidebook.
You'd think asking around might help. After all, I'm hardly the first person to find myself in this situation, any of it. But when I speak to other people, the best they can offer - for all their good intentions - is something along the lines of: "I was there. It was shit".
What to do for the best depends on your perspective. A kick-ass feminist workbitch like myself wants to be independent, lead a life of integrity, hold out for someone who thinks she's The Very Thing. A kind concerned loving mum like myself wants to do the best for her children and see if they can make it through childhood with their family life intact, and without too many emotional scars. You see the problem.
I've had my Period of Shittiness. I've resigned myself to the shitness of things, and got through the Period of Resignation. I went through the phoney-separation and the Period of Bridget. And now, well, I don't know what period I'm in.
I think it must be a sort of Captain Cook or Christopher Columbus sort of period. Should I find out more about them before I name my latest life-stage after them? And even then, I'm not sure. I feel they set out with more excitement and optimism than I have. Maybe I'm more like someone who's forced onto a journey. Convicts condemned to Australia? Irish people sailing to New York during the potato famine? I'd like to think of a journey into the unknown that has a reasonable likelihood of an eventual positive outcome.
I know. I'm going to call it the Period of Map Making. What do you think?
Sitting in Battersea Park watching the runners pass by, it is hard for me to believe that I am one of them now. They are faster, and fitter, and thinner. Nonetheless, I too am now a person who runs.
I've have put myself in the hands of my Get Running app, which is apparently going to take me from "Couch Potato to 5k" in ten weeks. I'm on Week 6, and have gone from a huffing, puffing person who was struggling to run for 1 minute to a huffing, puffing person who struggled through a 20 minute plod at the end of Week 5.
I fondly imagine that running will change my physique, change my metabolism, indeed change my approach to life. One thing I think it might do is give me an acceptable reason to leave the house (rather than slamming the door and driving around aimlessly, hyperventilating with stress). Having left the house, running may help me calm down, I figure. And even it doesn't achieve that directly, it hurts so bloody much in so many places that I can't really think about anything else.
Obviously I would lose more weight if I didn't drill a bottle of wine every evening.
And so finally, after many a twist and turn, the brainchild is coming home again.
Just like any other child, I imagine it will feel sometimes like a marvel and sometimes like a millstone. It will cost a bomb and cause sleepless nights. Hopefully it will grow into something good - and if not, well you can blame the parents.
“Are there going to be any more?” he asked. “Postcards? Is it finished?”
No, it’s not finished. I just didn’t have anything to say.
I won’t bring you up to date with events since the last postcard. Let’s not go there: wish you weren’t here. Suffice to say that anything you could have imagined wouldn’t have been as bad as the actual reality. And I’m not ready to lift the bandages just yet.
Alors, me re-voila.
I’ve been doing a lot of driving recently. The mum-taxi has gone long-haul over the summer, which provides me with some quality chat-time with Thing 1 and Thing 2 for half the journey, and a long time to myself for the other half. I don’t want to run any risk of becoming contemplative, so I play games with myself. Really, really embarrassing games but I’m going to share them anyway. What the heck.
The first game I play is called PopStars. This I may have mentioned before. Turn on the Carpenters and pretend to be Karen (although without the anorexia and tragic early death). Sing my little heart out. Whoah I’m good.
If the radio is on, I play RadioShow. Join in the conversation, talk over the other people. Insult them, argue with them, vigorously assert some made-up facts. Flirt with them, tease them, laugh uproariously at their jokes. No matter if the subject is the history of the Congo or Latvian monetary policy, just get in there.
In the Honda, the radio is bust. I have to entertain myself. I’ve got three games for the no-radio car. TomTom is good, but only if I know where I’m going. “In two hundred yards, bear left. At the roundabout, take the third exit”. Sometimes I do this in different accents (Cheryl Cole, Steve Irwin maybe) or for a challenge I’ll try different languages.
DrivingTest is very good for concentrating, and not speeding in built up areas. I tell myself how to drive (always good to be reminded). “Mirror, signal and now move forward. Change into second gear. Slow down, we’re approaching a crossing”. There is actually a harder version of this game, that they make you play on the Advanced Driving Course. You have to say out loud, verbally describe, everything you need to be aware of. "Car turning out from the left 50 yards ahead. Child on a bike could veer into the road. Traffic lights ahead. Dog not on a lead. Lady in blue Honda driving erratically. Road narrows. Left bend". This is supposed to improve your road awareness and make you drive better. Don’t let your friends play it while you’re a passenger, unless you don’t mind being terrified by all the things they haven’t noticed.
Less random and more authoritative is Documentary. They’re making a film of this journey and I’m the presenter. I’m going to tell you all about the places we’re going through, their history, geography, interesting facts, demographics and so forth. Whether I know or not.
Am I mad? Am I lonely? Or do I just have a really low boredom threshold? Answers on a postcard :-)
One of my friends has been given a piece of advice that has really set me thinking.
HALT, they said. Stop, look and listen. Watch out for situations where you are Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. This is when destructive behaviour patterns can set in.
Hungry, angry, lonely and tired. It sounded like a description of how I've been feeling over the past ten years or so. Pick any two (or three) and there you have it. I've thought about this a lot, these last few days.
I can change, I do believe that. But it will probably take a long time of hard work. However, something I could address relatively easily, straight away, would be to avoid these trigger situations. That will be one of my first tasks on the list.
Right now it is 12.30am.
Am I hungry? No. I've just been out for a curry with my friends. Sensibly chose all veggie things, so I am full but not uncomfortably stuffed.
Am I angry? Not right now. I was angry earlier this afternoon, but I've let those feelings pass through now.
Am I lonely? Not right now. I've spent an evening with 3 of my best friends, so I'm reminded I have good people who love me close by. But when I get home to the empty house, and when I wake up in the empty house, I think that will be lonely.
Am I tired? Oh god yes. I should have been in bed hours ago. However I'm working (and writing this...) now because I decided to have the nice, spontaneous evening earlier so it's a good trade.
I ought to go home and go to bed soon, though.
I've been doing some thinking. A lot of thinking. There have been a lot of things to think about.
And then when I was done with the thinking, I did some deciding. That part turned out to be easy in the end. I reached a turning point - last night, actually. It's time to move on, and leave behind what's holding me down.
I said I was not waving, but drowning. Further out than everyone thought. I should have added that I was drowning because I was being pulled under by a person I was trying to save.
All I have to do is decide to swim away. Not a hundred miles away, just beyond arm's stretch. A few strokes will do it. And already my head is free and I can breathe again.
Meanwhile, there's inner re-branding going on. I'm not going to be Hard To Love any more. I'm going to be adorable, gorgeous, sexy, warm and fun to be with. How's that for a start?
Happy birthday to me. Here endeth the Period of Bridget.
