Strange, isn’t it, that you can do something for years and then suddenly, for some reason it’s no longer relevant, no longer a part of your everyday life or no longer palatable and it stops. You no longer drive someone every Wednesday for choir or basketball for example or a tutor becomes redundant and then the entire experience floats away and quietly gets tucked in with the other bits of irrelevant mind jetsam.
And what of The Other Parents who were co-existing with me at this time in this weirdly middle class, parallel universe? Where are they now after sharing this peculiar bond? Why should I even care? But I sat beside them, making awkward small talk, warming my hands around a Tim Horton’s coffee I no longer wanted to drink, too self conscious (was this rude?) to read the book I had brought with me. We sat huddled together like this on rigid chairs that pinched my legs for years, watching our children tumble onto a mat (Aikido) all of us learning to count in Japanese as the Sensei shouted in loud piercing syllables: Ichi! San! Shi!
Then a rapid scurry for coats and shoes, the polite veneer of interest in one another falling quickly away and an obligatory: See you next week shouted over one shoulder.
Perhaps like myself you are consumed with dread much of the time these days but just for a moment, let us not think about The Pandemic.
The General and I distracted ourselves over hot cross buns and marmalade the other day by listening to Sir Anthony Hopkins on the radio and he was full of amusing banter and stories from years ago (hanging out with Peter O’Toole and Olivier, that type of thing) but what I really appreciate, always, is when a wise, older person (or anyone, really) makes themselves completely vulnerable and sincerely speaks from the heart. (He notes how easily he cries for example and how “the past is very present” with him these days).
Rather refreshing to hear in a judging, Instagram world.
Many years ago now I was at a party with Some Other Parents and as the evening and wine progressed, one mother leaned in to me and nodded in the direction of the living room. There, a definitely attractive mum had decided to stand on a chair and dance in a manner usually associated with a pole. She was also singing in a Marilyn-infused whisper to whatever was playing at the time. (Alright, it was Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light, gack …) She was just on the cusp of that age where she could basically still get away with it, her body being firm, her hair artfully tousled and highlighted, full lips a shiny bubblegum pink.
But as the person next to me drily observed, “The guys are loving this – but if I stood on a chair? People would just laugh.”
And she was right.