Inventing Second Chances - A short story

I watch you.  I see you and you have no idea of my presence.  It’s impossible for you to see or hear me, but I see you with her.  Walking hand in hand, stopping to hold her close and bury your face in her smooth, glossy hair.

“We’re overdue another incarnation,” I pronounce at book club one evening.  Four startled pairs of eyes stare suspiciously back, warily, silently wondering what’s coming next.

 “OK, I’ll bite.  What are you on about now?”  Pam asks, swallowing a large glug of dry white, accompanied by a chorus of chirps from the others.

Placing my beer mug-sized wine glass down carefully, I breathe in deeply and surveying the curious expressions turned towards me, explain.

 “Remember the Get-a- Long Gang?  Newly divorced, young kids, no money and too old to hit the singles scene?” 

Dry chuckles and groans as Pam, Karen, Chris and Laura nod, recalling the name we had for ourselves.  Two Fridays a month we got the night off from full time single parenting and relishing the freedom, we glammed up and hit the town, eager to behave like the single young-ish people we thought we were.

Regretfully, our self images didn’t measure up to our birth certificates nor to the staggering number of wax-mannequin perfect, stiletto wearing clones barely covered by strips of stretch glitter lycra and spray on jeans.  Well, maybe calling them ‘jeans’ is stretching the word a little.  All they had in common with the sensible bootleg pants we wore was the varied shades of blue denim.  There was no disguising the word which described us -mumsy.  So after dancing with each other, buying our own drinks and leaving the pubs like middle aged Cinderella’s at midnight, taunts of “come back sugar mummies” ringing in our ears, we eventually gave up and grew up.

The Get-a-Long Gang turned into a bookclub.  Not a terribly well organised one at that – irregularly held meetings spent drinking and jaws clacking until they ached.  Actually, the book box didn’t even make the last meeting, having been left behind in Chris’s driveway.  Thankfully, it was only the books, not her wine.

“Look at us,” I say.  “We’re a ghost generation.  Our primary function is over; we’ve been discarded by offspring and husbands.  We need to reinvent ourselves and discover a new purpose, solely for ourselves.”

Standing in the doorway, I gaze inside the room, my eyes lingering on the neatly made bed.  My heart squeezes painfully and my eyes fill; the heavy emptiness too much to bear.

Laura, ever the cautious one, clears her throat, nudging her glasses further up her nose.  “We hear you, Caro.  But perhaps it’s time to acknowledge that we are not in our 20’s or 30’s anymore and just gracefully accept the stage we are actually in?”  Softly spoken Laura rarely says anything controversial or disagreeable socially.   Very different from the passionate and vocal eco tiger Laura becomes when organising protest marches and petitions for the Environmental Agency she runs.

The clamorous outcry that follows her statement has us gasping for breath and reaching for the corkscrew.  There’s nothing like indignation to dry throats and empty glasses.

“Nonsense,” roars Karen.  “Graham says younger women can’t hold a candle to us.  He’s never met anyone as on- form and enthusiastic in the sack as I am.  Not bad considering he’s 18 years younger than me.”

Mouths open, Laura, Chris, Pam and I catch each other’s eye, but leave the thoughts unsaid.  Karen, an artist, has never bothered with marriage or children.  Besotted with her Great Dane she spends her life travelling in places where running water and electricity are unheard of.  Jungle trekking in Vietnam – that’s her.  Sleeping rough on a tiny island off the West African coast – her too.  And those are the places she meets the endless string of boys barely old enough to shave that she tucks under her wing and dotes on.  When they move on, she books another plane ticket and heads out, hunting down the next one.

“Well,” Pam says, “we’ve got an unmarked canvas ahead of us.  What we had has gone.  We’re aging faster than we could have believed and my future is bursting with wrinkles, aching joints, hormones and my cats. So I’m up for anything to change that.”

“We’re completely ignored by songwriters and poets,” Chris remarks.  “And have they ever made a movie about menopausal women squelching out of bed in the middle of the night or sitting in meetings radiating heat like a boiling kettle?”

I bite my lip, cursing aloud as the nut on the pool weir refuses to budge. Hammering at it with the pliers, I feel the tears mounting behind my lashes.  This is your job; my hands aren’t strong enough to do this.  The soupy olive water reflects my distress.  I feel so alone.  When did I become so helpless?

The next day, Karen phones.  “I think you’re onto something,” she shrieks.  She’s always so loud and active; it’s exhausting to spend much time with her.

“We have to decide how to fill this canvas.  I think book club has run its course, and it’s time for us to grasp the nettle and go for it.  Time’s a’ticking, if we don’t do it now, then when?”

She’s right, of course, but what is the what?

“I’m emailing everyone today and setting up a meeting at the wine bar for Thursday week.  We all have to come armed with an idea for our personal growth project,” she continues.

It’s easier to agree than to argue so I do, leaving the anxiety for later.  What do I want to achieve?  What do I dream about?  Who am I anyway?  I fear it’s too late to discover myself. The glossies feature ‘inspirational’ stories about on-top-of-their-game women who seemingly without effort reinvent their lives and turn hobbies into successful businesses.   But I feel intimidated, not inspired by these women.  When cooking, gardening and DIY are never ending chores, how can they become a hobby?  Besides, my wonky cakes and tasty casseroles look more at home in the dog’s bowl than the food stylist’s photograph.  Culinary skills are not my path to fame and fortune, and do I really want to melt the rest of my life away cooking to order?

The tizzy spin Karen’s pronouncement puts my head into shows itself later.  A screaming match with my editor over photographs she hadn’t asked for and now insists on getting, followed by not one but three proofreading meltdowns - all for the same client - sends me home with my tail between my legs and eyes spilling over.  I can’t afford to lose this job, but something seems to be happening to my brain.  How could I read something so many times and miss the glaringly obvious typos? 

 “I’m ready to go into the witness protection programme and start a new life!” I sobbed over the phone to Pam.  “It’s all too much, everything is going wrong and I want a new life.  Someone else’s. Anyone else’s”

“Wait for me,” she said, “I’ll join you – I came within inches of slicing my boss’s head off today and it’s impossible to decide if it was due to having a bog standard idiot in charge or a freaking hormonal super storm.”  This is why we are friends – misery shared is misery halved.   Pam thrives in the pressure cooker world of a small advertising agency, where her calm, easy going nature achieves the impossible and keeps everyone on track.  But even she has her limits.

Thursday arrived and with confused head and heart I turned my car towards the wine bar.  Chris, Karen and Laura sit at a table near the door, heads flung back, roaring with laughter, wine level in their glasses already dangerously low.  Well, we may not solve many problems tonight but as usual, when we get together a good time is guaranteed.   

“Just wait til you hear this,” Karen hiccups, her face flushed pomegranate with glee.  “Chris discovered Cam’s stash of dope and has been stealing and smoking it!”

Speechless, I sit down heavily on the trendy and oh-so-uncomfortable seat, blindly reaching for the bottle as I gawk at Chris.

“Well why not?” she asks defensively.  “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about and last week when that deal fell through at work and Jonathan told me that Candi was pregnant the timing seemed perfect.”

“Your ex husband has got Barbie up the spout?  He’s spent the past 15 years dodging maintenance payments and now he starts another family with a teenager?”   For a minute, Chris’s mid life narcotic adventure took a step backwards as the news penetrated my muddled menopausal brain.

Exuding cigarette smoke and in her usual breathless way, Pam dropped into the seat next to me.  “What am I missing?” she asks “If your jaws drop any lower I could have parked my car inside one and saved the past 20 minutes trying to find something legal outside.”

Chris swiftly tells the story her ex-idiot had revealed on the phone.  “You know,” Laura comments, “it’s boastful and lame of him to call just to tell you that”

“Never mind” I interrupt,” let’s get back to the drug story.  What were you thinking, stealing your son’s supply?  You’re 48, not 18.  Is this some sort of midlife rebellion?  And who are you rebelling against?”

Lifting her chin, staring defiantly at us, Chris began to explain.  The words poured like a waterfall, flowing over her lips.  “I’m rebelling against me.  Smoking makes me feel lighter, unburdened, as if all the ropes tying me down have been released and I’m free to float at will.  I didn’t get the chance to do this at 18 – when you girls were clubbing all night, I was awake with a toddler and a new baby.”

We sit briefly in sympathy filled silence.  Then, like a whirlwind, Karen launches herself off her chair and hurtled across the room.  “Richard” she yells, leaping up at a startled man just entering the wine bar, wrapping her long and unfairly gorgeous legs around his waist.

“Sit, Karen,” Laura, veteran dog owner, commands.  “Put him down.”   Her firm voice brooks no argument and Karen reluctantly peels herself off the startled man and walks back to the table, pouting.

“I haven’t seen him in ages,” she whines.  “I’ve missed him and just wanted to say hello.”  Shaken and relieved at his escape, Richard clutches the bar, frantically signalling the barman for a drink. Richard, it turned out, was a client she’d seduced then dumped when she went gorilla trekking in Uganda.

“Right, who’s up first with their ideas for reinventing themselves?” Pam asks, refilling the glasses.

Surprisingly, it’s Laura who puts her drink down first.   “I’ll start,” she says “What I really want to do is to travel.  That costs money which I don’t have.  But I’ve always had a knack for foreign languages - I pick up the basics very quickly.  There’s an elderly Portuguese lady in my complex who’s agreed to teach me Portuguese two evenings a week.  She doesn’t want paying, just some company and I’ll help her with her shopping on Saturdays.  There are plenty of environmental jobs in Africa for someone bilingual.  It’s a long road ahead, but I’ve got time on my hands.”

We clap enthusiastically, and Karen whoops loudly.  “That’s great,” declares Pam.  “I’ve come up with something too.  I loathe cooking for one, so I’ve advertised ready-made home cooked meals on our office notice board.  I had no idea I worked with so many single people – the response has been great so this weekend is my big cook-up, first deliveries on Monday.  You can’t imagine how my heart sings with joy at being able to cook up a storm again.”

Wow, these girls rock, I think, still clueless as to where I’m heading.   “Me next.”  Karen announces.  “I’m helping out at the Hunky Munky backpackers in town.  They need someone to run reception and I can set up my computer in the office and work there when it’s quiet.  The pay isn’t great but the vibe is magic and with all the travelling I’ve done, I can offer experienced advice to the backpackers.”

“And,” mutters Laura sotto voce, “a supply of fresh meat on tap!” causing much snorting of wine up our noses.

Chris jumps in before Karen can summon up a response.  “I’m joining the hiking and birding clubs.  I need to be more active and this way I spend more time outdoors, get fitter, learn something and meet a new group of people.  I’ve bought a new camera and the guy at the shop has offered me some lessons, so I can take some cracking pics on the weekend jaunts.”

A babble of approving voices and smiles greet this news, and four faces turn expectantly to me.  What am I to say? “Err, well, I’ve been giving intense thought to so many ideas, it’s very difficult to select one.”

“Nonsense,” Pam glares fiercely.  “Cough up, this was your idea in the first place.”

My head swivels on my neck as I desperately stare around the wine bar, seeking inspiration.  Mirrors and brushed chrome coldly rebuff my mental plea for help.  As my eyes swing back to the group, they sweep over the chalkboard menu.  ‘Organic ingredients fresh from the earth!’  trumpets the heading.  Earth, I think.  I need grounding.

“Soil” I announce.  “I need to get my hands dirty and earth myself.  I’m turning my little patch of grass into a herb and veggie garden, there’s a nursery down the road that’ll help me get started.  I’ve avoided gardening because it’s so demanding, but it’ll keep me physically busy and occupy my mind.  And you lot can look forward to feasting off the sweat of my brow next spring!” 

As we raise our glasses in celebration, Chris asks “so will we still get together now we’ve fired book club?”

“Of course,” I reply. “We have a new club – Single, Menopausal, Empty-Nesters Union – SMENU.  Getting together to share food, wine, laughs, support and advice – just like book club but no pretending that we actually read anything.”

Clinking glasses, our beaming faces shine happily around our circle.  We’ve stared obsolescence and loneliness down, reached inside ourselves and rediscovered our dreams.  Sure, our children have fledged and moved on, but we are commencing our own voyage of discovery.

I watch you.  I see you and you have no idea of my presence.  It’s impossible for you to feel me tenderly stroke your hair, but I do so one last time.  I glow with pride as my mind watches you thriving at university, striding confidently towards your future.  I let you grow up and leave, my son, and turn to face my own future.   I see the horizon ahead and reach out eagerly.  Hungry for the dreams within me, and celebrating the freedom I have to nurture them.