It’s a bit cloudy. Did you get it mid-stream?

Last week was a bit of a medical mystery. I made the mistake of telling the doctor my throat was scratchy on Wednesday, so she went all Monty Python me and hid behind a box of specula while printing off a referral for a Covid test. That resulted in a further day off school and a Zoom interview for a job. I hope I get that job, because the other one I am being considered for requires a little more of me. One of the things is a medical examination.

I’ve heard of people being subjected to a medical when they are hoping to become a pilot, or joining the police force, or applying for a place in an elite sports programme. Not as part of the interview process for teaching English in a school. And to be clear, I haven’t had the final interview yet.

When I walked in the door of the treatment room, I was presented with a specimen cup. I dutifully peed into it, and all over my hand. It’s quite hard to aim as a woman. I was weighed and had my height measured. Why would the school need to know those details? Will I not get the job if I am shorter than my students? Or if they think I’m overweight? You’ll be pleased to know that my blood pressure is normal – whatever that means.

This ad would have been useful a week ago.

Then I was tested for colour blindness – obviously so I will be able to tell my students apart. My eyesight and hearing were checked – no doubt so that I can hear a hurled missile coming my way and see it before it hits me. My balance was checked – which could be in case I do a field trip on a boat, with 27 students, teaching English. My flexibility – bending backwards, forwards, sidewards – and turning my head were next – I expect this was to check I’ll be able to dodge bullets Matrix-style.

This is when it gets bizarre. The doctor waved a stethoscope at me and asked me to lift my dress so she could listen to my hearbeat. There I was, with my dress bunched up above my boobs while she checked that I was still alive. Luckily I wore (fairly) new, matching underwear. Then she told me to lie down on the bed and she lifted my legs in turn, turned my ankles, checked my reflexes and bent my knees. As if that wasn’t enough, she got me to drop my bent leg to the side, an action reminiscent of my child-birthing experiences. I’m not sure where my dress was at this stage – probably over my face so I could pretend I wasn’t there.

Bizarrer still, she said she needed to check my lymph nodes. She poked my underarms and my throat. Then she moved lower. Let’s just say the last time anyone poked around that area, he at least had the decency to buy me dinner.

I left there, bewildered and perplexed, feeling like I had been probed by an alien. But with the knowledge that I am quite flexible ‘for my age’.

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When an ugly guy dumps you

In my young and reckless days (as opposed to my old-er and equally reckless ones) I would take pity on poor souls who had plucked up the courage to ask me out, and I would say yes. And I don’t mean they were necessarily ugly to look at. It could be a guy who was shy, or short, or who your friend said she didn’t like. The usual flow of events would be:
1. an awkward ride to the movies (often in Mum’s car)
2. having to dodge – as surreptitiously as possible – the sweaty hand that drifted over to my seat, or the arm that was draped across the back of my chair and started sliding down to touch my shoulder (I have to admit to needing to tie my shoelaces by bending down to the floor to avoid this!)
3. an equally awkward ride home, with Mum making overly bright conversation
4. getting one of my friends to tell him I didn’t want to go out with him.

Then it happens. The moment every pigtail-wearing, self-righteous young teen dreads. Before you can tell him (or get your eye-rolling friend to tell him) that you just want to be friends, he dumps you. You become all Greta Thurnberg on him. ‘How dare you!’

File:Protest gegen das Klimapaket 2019-09-25 16 (cropped).jpg - Wikimedia  Commons
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Protest_gegen_das_Klimapaket_2019-09-25_16_(cropped).jpg

You feel as if your rights have been stripped away. You want to rail against the injustice of the world. You tell anyone who will listen that it was you who ended it because you can’t abide the slack-jawed wide-eyed stares from girlfriends who ooze pity for you. The consoling hand on your arm while they plan how they can spread this juicy gossip in pre-internet, pre-cellphone, passing folded pieces of paper days. And you vow it will never happen again. Never again will you say yes to anyone who you don’t actually fancy.

Never again will you apply for a job you don’t really want only to have them turn around and say they don’t want you. Same indignation. Same feeling of being cheated because I was supposed to be the one to say I didn’t want the job.

Same ‘How dare you’.

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Stop trying to eat Grandma!

It’s not every day you hear those words. But then it’s not every day my son and his fiance bring my grandpuppy to visit! You know, when the kids were young and had pets and called me the grandmother of said pets, I didn’t mind. But as I become more aware of my ageing self, I think I would rather be Zoe’s aunty, or better still, her older sister.

Zoe’s first birthday party

I didn’t think I had an issue with getting older. I have always maintained that I am fascinated with the changes in my face – the wrinkles, the hooded eyes, the chubby cheeks. Well, I have decided that I don’t like being old.

It hit me rather suddenly. I was bra shopping at a fancy mall. When I went to pay for my purchase at a fancy shop, the woman who served me asked if I needed help installing their app on my phone. She added that she always helps the older ladies with technology. The older ladies! The stupid cow was older than me! Older ladies…

Then I went to another fancy shop and went into the change room to try on a rather elaborate bra with four hooks on the back. Who invented bras with four hooks? Feeling decidedly not double-jointed, I spent a good two minutes trying to do up the lace contraption. Every time I got one hook done up, another would come loose. Eventually my arthritic fingers were aching and I had to give up. I stood in the brightly lit cubicle and cried, while a much younger, cheery voice asked, ‘Need any help in there?’ I left the mall.

The logical part of me knows that we all get old – if we’re lucky. The Christian part of me is thankful for the beautiful life I have been gifted. But the naturally optimistic part of me that is finding new aches, and watching the weathering of my body, is having a bit of a hard time.

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Trying to find my Peppermint Crisp

I was making a South African dessert yesterday – a Peppermint Crisp caramel tart. For the uninitiated it consists of a biscuit base topped with caramel, cream and Peppermint Crisp chocolate. Fattening, but beautiful. Anyway, I remembered back to when I was first in NZ and feeling very homesick. We went with a friend to a shop attached to service station that stocked South African products. I bought a Peppermint Crisp and proceeded to scoff the entire thing in the forecourt before getting back in the car. In my chocolate-eating trance I felt safe and loved, even if only for 42 seconds.peppermint crisp

That memory made me realise there is something missing in my life. Something that will give me the same feeling I had at the Shell service station 23 years ago. Something that will pick up the fragments of my shattered spirit and stick them together. Something that will claw back the soul that has been sucked out of me. Something that will ignite the bonfire hiding under a bushel. Something that will nudge the ashes of the phoenix to spark new life.

A new job. That’s what I need. You probably thought I was going to ramble on about needing a man. Ha! The Peppermint Crisp I am craving is a new job.

 

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I paid someone to touch me

Ever heard of a Lomi Lomi massage? I hadn’t until last week when I had one. It was great, so I might make it a habit. It would be good to cultivate some GOOD habits. The thing about it, and what made it so enjoyable, is that the masseuse knew what she was doing. I have had my shoulders massaged at an instant place in the mall with questionable success.

You see, when we leave things up to an expert, we get far better results. When I was on a dating site, I had a few guys claim to be good at massaging. I ever understood that. Why would I get some half-arsed touchy-touchy from a random man when I can pay someone to do a good job?

eye

That is the same with teaching. As high school teachers, we specialise in certain fields – fields that interest us. I qualified as an English and Geography teacher. Over the years I have honed my English teaching skills and become quite passionate when analysing a novel or guiding a student to improve a piece of writing. I have studied my Masters in Creative Writing. I have helped lead English departments. I have been a national marker for senior English exams. I have become the best English teacher I can possibly be.

Why then, in the school I am about to teach, have I not been given any academic English classes? I applied as an English teacher and said that I was okay with having a Religious Education class thrown in – Catholic school, Catholic teacher. However, most of my timetable is teaching Religious Education. I have questioned this decision but been told that my timetable is set.

I do not subscribe to the idiotic belief that any teacher can teach anything, especially if you are going to do a good job. I could probably teach Maths or Physics because I did both of those subjects at high school. Would I do it well? Not likely. Would I evoke passion for the subjects in my students? I doubt it. Would I be happy? Definitely not.

I am trying to lean on my faith and believe that there is a bigger plan at play. That there is a reason why I find myself in this space and place. But right now I’m battling.

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The New Normal

English is a great language.
Because it has more exceptions than rules? ‘Add -ed to make a past tense verb, except for these 1,574 words.’ Um, no, that doesn’t make it great.
Because it has so many words that look the same but sound different? Maybe not that either.
English is great because it is dynamic. It borrows from other languages to build itself and then, just when you think you’re getting the hang of it, it changes on you.

Take Covid-19 for instance. Who would have used the phrases ‘social distancing’, ‘grim milestone’ and ‘the new normal’ a few months ago? Even ‘coronavirus’, which existed in the medical dictionary and possibly some research fields, was not on anyone’s lips. Now there’s probably a baby somewhere who said this as their first word.

My students were writing creatively as a character from John Marsden’s novel,  Tomorrow, When the War Began, where teenagers are struggling to survive against an invasion. Two of my kids had the character reflect on their ‘new normal’ of hiding in the bush. This got me thinking about what MY new normal is.

baking

The old normal

This photo is the old normal – I spent six hours last Sunday baking for my students because I am leaving my current school – again. This is my new normal. Since moving to Australia, I have to look for another job every six months. Hopefully, the school I am moving to next term will be my forever school.

My new normal is not dating, not looking for a man, and telling everyone about it.

My new normal is hot flushes and never knowing what to wear because I sweat in anything slightly wintery and then shiver when the flush passes and my skin is damp, and never having great hair because when beads of perspiration break out on my forehead my cowlick springs into action, and never wearing a watch because having something so tight against my skin heats me up too much.

Yes, my new normal is not normal at all. I’m going to have to start using the phrase ‘new abnormal’ to convince myself that these things will pass, and so that I can start looking for the ‘normal’ light at the end of this tunnel.

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I should do more!

There is so much happening in our world right now that is crazy and confusing. I can’t do anything to change anything. If I had followed the research path earlier in life, I may well have been one of the angels working on a cure. If I had been born in South America with political aspirations, I may well have been a president who cared about the people. If I had stayed in South Africa, I may well have altered my career path to bootlegging. None of these is the case.

The Serenity Prayer asks for courage to change the things I can – that is what I need to focus on. And that involves doing more than I am right now. You would suppose that lying in bed typing a blog on my laptop is a start. But it isn’t. In fact it’s the opposite. What I need to do more of is exercise.UNKNOWN_MEDALLION_-_POSSIBLY_AADAC_or_NA_b_-_Flickr_-_woody1778a

I have taken to doing yoga sporadically. The intention is there, and the mat is rolled up in the corner of my room. A beautiful friend of mine has started teaching yoga classes and I attended some at her place prior to the world shutting down. I’m not very supple. One pose that made me feel very old was lying on my stomach and reaching back to grab my feet – dhanurasana. The closest I got to getting this right was working on the steep bank in my garden and finding myself slipping into the ‘fall-dahn-on-ur-asana’ pose.

I wonder if a lack of energy is the problem. I think that energy begets energy, so if I start (maybe by getting out of bed now) it should give me the energy to continue. I briefly thought of needing extrinsic motivation like my old nemesis – dating. But then I slapped myself silly and the feeling passed. I think of things visually – in my mind I see a crusty old scab that has formed over the suppurating sore of old dating habits. I don’t feel much like picking at that scab right now.

I think I’ll go eat some breakfast and draw up a programme. Right after I have a nap.

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The right brand of Christianity

I don’t know if you’ve ever stopped and thought about what brand of Christianity you are all about. I hadn’t until I moved to Australia.mde

I have been a Catholic most of my life. I say ‘most’ because I worshiped at a Presbyterian church for many years and then came back to my roots. I don’t see a problem with bouncing between churches because it’s all the same God and Christian is Christian. Two things have happened recently that have made me aware that not everything thinks the way I do. Who would have thought?

Yesterday I had two lovely ladies come to my door with pamphlets and an I-pad to share their views on what I should believe. Even though I told them I am Catholic and have just come from church, they still tried to question my beliefs and gave me a booklet. They said they would come back next week to try again. I’m going to hide.

The other thing was an interview I had at a school. Although they asked me about my teaching style, the main thing they wanted to know was about my faith journey. Journey? I felt inadequate. Saying I have been a Christian all my life sounded like a cop out. I explained that I don’t have a moment when I saw the light. I believe simply because I have no choice – it’s part of who I am. I didn’t get the job.

When I was over in England and Paris earlier this year, I visited many cathedrals. None of them had security screening to keep Catholics out. Or sniffer dogs to detect Methodists. Or signs saying, ‘Waving of hands in worship forbidden.’ What were they thinking, treating all brands as equal?

I wonder who’s going to tell God to be more judgey with how everyone is allowed to worship? I’m sure my visitors from yesterday will volunteer.

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Doing the best we can

We go through life doing the best we can with the talents we have. When a parent dies, we are reminded that we are gifted this existence for a limited period of time and we wonder if we should be doing more. We reflect on our talents and abilities and try see bits of the parent in us. We spend time looking back on moments we spent together – talking to others, flipping through photo albums, and find it hard to comprehend that they will never look that way again. Or any way again. It’s really important that we look at old photos so we remember them in happier, healthier times. I don’t want to remember my dad as the figure wasting away in a shitty South African hospital with no pillow or blanket.

I asked my students to attempt to write a paragraph using an extended metaphor. Some of them looked at me like I had spoken Croatian. I said they could use the analogy that our lives are like roller coasters – ups and downs, blah blah. One boy sort of the got the idea when he wrote that ‘when you get too old, you’ll have to get off.’ Ain’t that the truth!oldage.jpg

This year has been one of many changes for me. I moved countries. I taught at one school for a term – which was amazing. Then moved to another school and had to get to know people all over again. And learn new names! Do you know how hard that is at my age? But I do the best I can. I’ve just bought a house. And then my dad passed away. That presented another issue involving a NZ passport and needing a visa that would take five days, which precluded my attendance at the funeral.

Through all of this, I have lost my writing mojo. Whenever I sit down to write anything, there are no words. This made it extra difficult when my siblings asked me to write something about Dad to be read at his funeral. How could I write a poem with no words? I sat for hours, spraying words on one page after another. Finally, I wrote something. A fledgling poem. Perhaps a spark of writing life battling to rise up out of the creative ashes.

It might not be a literary masterpiece. But I did the best I could.

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Fully assembled

The best two words in the universe – fully assembled. Having moved countries again, I have bought new furniture. The trend these days is for tables, TV cabinets, queen size beds and outdoor furniture to come in a ‘flat pack’. That means you have to wrestle with ginormous cardboard boxes and massive plastic bags, before trying to bully a flimsy allen key and a teaspoon (because, let’s face it, who buys a screwdriver?) into moulding bits of wood, plastic and iron into semi-decent functional bits.

Then something arrives with those two words on it – fully assembled – and your heart sings. Okay, it was a mattress. And I would have been ever so annoyed, and hugely confused, if that needed assembling. Imagine – instead of saying ‘Tools needed – screwdriver, allen key, rubber mallet’ it would say ‘Tools needed – industrial sewing machine’.

Well, I had help with all the assembling and the place is furnished. And I survived. And my arthritic fingers survived. Barely. A lesser person might have dragged some of the cardboard boxes into the passage and made a fort to hide in.

words

But this got me thinking. What if our lives could come fully assembled? What if we had a job already and didn’t have to get up at 6 every morning and sit by the phone in case a school rang? What if we could just buy a house with the money we emigrated with, rather than having to rent?

Then we wouldn’t have to feel like the only pieces of our lives we have in the plastic bags are the big ones, while the smaller ones have fallen out in transit. Maybe we’ll find them in the bottom of the cardboard box. And we’ll be able to piece ourselves back together.

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