Signs of a misspent youth

The Rugby World Cup is over (congratulations Kiwis!) but its legacy remains. Specifically, it serves, every four years, to remind me of my misspent youth. I sat last weekend with friends discussing locks, flankers, fly halfs, phases and lineouts - the language of my 20s, spent, as it was, in the company of a rugby club. Weekends lost to the joys of shivering on the sidelines, wondering if my second-rower boyfriend would end up concussed, or merely with new cauliflowers to add to his patch. Saturday nights spent drinking, dancing and carousing.

A misspent youth is a wonderful thing and comes in many guises. Both of my sisters are extremely good at pool, and one, I won't say which, is an absolute demon. Wipe-the-floor-with-you, pool-table-hustler good. Don't say you haven't been warned.

I have friends who can roll their own, er, cigarettes one-handed. Friends who should never be challenged to a game of poker, or 500, or even Scrabble for that matter. I know guys who can play every song that Kurt Cobain ever wrote - and not much else. Girls who drive boring four-cylinder A-to-B cars like they're still driving the six-cylinder, gas-guzzling rev-head mobile they cruised through their twenties in. People who will never need a Cocktail Recipe book because they have every classic cocktail recipe memorised - and can produce one on cue.

The older I get the more I understand the notion that you only regret the things you didn't do.

Come on, 'fess up - what's the sign of your misspent youth?

Same face, different mirror

On the weekend, circumstances were such that I had to spend some time in front of an unfamiliar mirror. I'm not a fan of mirrors. They rate right up there with photographs for me. I can tolerate my own mirror, mostly because it seems to tolerate me. But get me in front of a new, differently lit mirror and, well, it tends to go pear-shaped.

In my own mirror, my face looks okay. Tired, not quite what it was, but okay. Other mirrors, however, seem to magnify flaws. Jowls appear. Wrinkles deepen. Teeth yellow and, good God!, is that a moustache I see before me? A simple teeth-brushing exercise becomes an odyssey of self-reflection - and not the good, meditative, Dalai Lama version.

I have to back away.

Given enough time, I can convince myself that it was all in the lighting. Too harsh. So different from the 50-watt energy-saving (useless) single bulb that currently casts flattering shadows in the Fibro bathroom. I probably look better than that. Really.

But in the back of my mind, I know the truth. It's my face, but not how I like to see it.

How's your relationship with your mirror these days?

[image: antique mirror from TheGildedTassel/etsy]

In praise of the ironing basket

If you know me well, you know that I would not generally use the word 'praise' in the same sentence as 'ironing basket' without good reason. The iron and I are not friends. I remember getting a steam iron for Christmas the year I moved out of home and... well, let's just say the words 'stony' and 'faced' would have best described my reaction. Almost as good as the year I got a vacuum cleaner... but that's another story.

I have spent much of my life seeking out the words 'anti-wrinkle', and not just in face creams. Those 'throw out your iron' pants that Shane Warne was advertising a few years ago? I tried very hard to get The Builder to invest in an entire wardrobe of them. I had shirts that hung unworn for years simply because they did not fit the work wardrobe criteria: can it be put on right now and look presentable?

But I am a reformed non-ironer. Like a reformed smoker, only less evangelical. Still a little preachy though. So bear with me.

When Mr7 started school two years ago, I stuck with my long-practised Theory of Ironing. That is, do it only when necessary. So, yes, I was ironing a uniform every day, wedged around sandwich-making and general yelling about shoes. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

Until I realised that it was one of the reasons that, every single day, we screeched into the carpark as the bell rang. And that it was adding to the general yelling about shoes by adding to the general stress levels.

Enter, the ironing basket. It began gradually enough. On Sunday night I would iron two 'normal' uniforms and one 'sports'. We had enough gaps between sports days that we could rotate nicely. The Builder's work blues began appearing on the pile and we would take it in turns to 'do the ironing'.

Slowly but surely, I have become an organised, Sunday night ironer. The Builder and I not only do all the uniforms and the work blues, but the occasional random pair of pants or frock has joined the pile. I have realised the joy of going to the wardrobe and being prepared. The true definition of Ready To Wear. Not everything, of course. A family night out would not be a family night out without last-minute ironing (and yelling about shoes).

Somewhere online last week - a blog? a tweet? facebook? - someone* commented that their mum had come over and had been looking for the ironing basket. "I don't have one," this mystery blogger/tweeter/facebooker replied. "I'm too busy to do ironing like that."

I thought of my ironing basket. And how much time it saves me. It's like reading your emails - a major time-suck if you do it piecemeal, but chunk it down and you can get really efficient at it.

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself as I try to come to terms with my new position in life as an Ironing Basket Disciple.

Are you an ironing-basket disciple, or a devotee of the Iron As You Go principle? Is this just another sign of my impending old age?


*Let me know if it was you - I often find myself wandering down unfamiliar paths on the internet and can never remember where I was or how to get back there.


And yes, in case you were wondering, the above image from GraphiteGirl/etsy is exactly what I look like when I iron. Right down to the high heels.

Can I ask you a question?

I read today, in O magazine (so it must be true), that asking a lot of questions can help "keep your mind nimble" (their words, not mine) as you age. I was kind of excited by this. Not only because it seems that Misters 4 and 7 will be incredibly sharp 109 year olds (I figure it will take them this long to run out of questions). But because I will be too. Well, maybe not 109 (my Bio Age score at the gym the other day was close to that now). But sharp.

To give you an idea of why, I thought I'd run you through some of the questions I asked today. This does not include the questions I had to answer (which included such gems as "why does that car look funny?" - answer: because it's a hearse - and "where is that story that was due today?" - answer: the dog ate my homework). Just a small sample of the ones that originated from me.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"Where are your shoes?"

"Where are your shoes?"

"Where are your shoes?"

"Why did you change the time for Reading and not tell me?"

"What do you think of this story idea?"

"What is career resilience?"

"What foods should we eat for more energy?"

"How can I network when I have to pick the kids up after school?"

"How does Skype work?"

"What would life be like for a country solicitor?"

"Would any woman in her right mind drive 1000km to talk to a man who 'needed space'?"

"Do you really need that receipt to finish my tax?"

"What is the difference between a bully and a bitch?"

"When do you need this by?"

"What are the 10 essential things that everyone should know about insurance?"

"Where the hell did I put that receipt?"

"Where are your shoes?"


Of course, I have barely scraped the surface. But, as you can see, I am well on the way to a very nimble mind in old age. Also well on the way to making my children sleep in their shoes.

What about you? Are you asking a lot of questions? Are they meaningful questions?


{image: Jamie'sArt/etsy}