Headed for Pumpkiness

Headed for Pumpkiness -A light-hearted consideration of middle age - Lesley

Why a pumpkin? Well it is what things tend to turn into at around midnight, isn’t it…?… and on the twenty-four hour clock that is my total expected lifespan, I guess I must have cruised past midday several hours back now. I think it may have been back around the period of severe angst and lack of cash for cyber-hungry teenage offspring, and the sudden certainty that aspiring to ever greater working responsibility was probably never going to provide that crowning sense of achievement I had so innocently anticipated when I first put a naïve yet eager young foot on the lower rungs of the career ladder.

So while I may not yet be quite entering into the gentle evening twilight of my brief day of glory, I can see from the change in light quality that dusk is definitely falling, and as darkness and the inevitable midnight approach, my predestiny with pumpkinhood is pretty much looming somewhere… probably only just out of sight over the horizon.

Please understand that I don’t consider pumpkiness as a target, and it’s certainly not an aspiration, I consider it more like the inevitable vegetable - or is it really a fruit - that I may be lucky enough to turn into before I finally understand that the light in the tunnel probably is the midnight express coming down the line, and I have the common good sense to shake off this mortal coil and step over the pearly threshold, into the land of ambrosia on draft. Hmmm, actually M’Lud, I think a small Madeira would do just as nicely…

In eons past the life of woman was considered in three simple phases: Maiden, Mother and finally Crone. Wise-woman was available as an option if you actually passed the Mother phase and still wanted the meagre sum of your functioning brain cells to be known. Though this phase could on occasion be dangerous if you were fond of cats, or had a family tendency to facial moles.

Well the mothering bit is done, though for some strange reason after spending many of those anxiety ridden teenage years (my anxiety during the offspring’s teens that is) looking for speedy routes for escape from the appalling strictures of the parental fold, there now seems to be a marked reluctance from the said offspring to finally cut the cord to that ties with incredible elasticity to the parental wallet, and seek that final step into financial independence or oblivion (delete as appropriate).

I find I am still the same sucker I always was for that longing tone which was used to get the last choccie biccy from the assortment, leaving me with the ones made from sawdust and mouse poo, or the bigger ice-cream with sprinkles and sauce, or the ten speed metallic finish mountain bike with front and rear suspension, or the walking on air trainers, and finally the wedding that Barclaycard just loved me so much for. Though I would be the first to admit that all those sawdust biccies have kept me pretty regular over the years, so simple blessings must be counted I suppose.

Maiden and Mother I staggered through without either the handbook or the pre-course notes, and in a constant fog of confusion and unanswered questions, never really knowing what daft issues, compromises, embarrassments and costs the next day might just toss my way, and living with the hope that the available cash or desperate debt would see me through. So why should I expect that either compassion, empathy, an ever-thickening skin and ultimately hard cash would make any difference to the threshold from Mother to Crone, or even to Wise woman? Why? Because over half a lifetime of experience, a veritable wealth of knowledge, useless though most of it may be, and a career-developed ability to plan or should that be ‘scheme’, must have prepared me in some manner for the time the offspring would finally shake off the last threads of the apron stings and leave me at liberty to step gaily forwards along the path towards a big, round, grubby orange and definitely pumpkinny future.

Anyway what is middle age? If I may anticipate living to the round old age of eighty, then middle age could have been deemed to reach its peak at around forty, and I was too busy as I passed that particular milestone to give it a second glance. There does seem to be something quite sad in having already overlooked one of the few such significant milestones of my life. Or should I just be satisfied that such an ugly landmark has been passed without notice, especially now I am sitting here scoffing at middle age?

Rather strangely men seem to have life so much better organised in that respect, the ‘ages’ of man seem to be boy, youff, stud, middle-aged, and finally old fool. I’m sure you can substitute many other words which are better suited to your own old fool if you wish. Many of them strive to progress no further than the halcyon days somewhere between youff and stud throughout adulthood on the basis of their eternal comic humour, self-professed sporting prowess, the multipoint injection, four-wheel drive turbo land-gobbler they insist is essential transport. Though for some of course this also includes the continued conquest of many a mysterious, and often mythical, maiden. Though as the paunch develops and the hairline recedes, only the four-wheel drive might remain as a sad reminder of the firm muscles and flowing locks the years have stolen away. Middle age seems to occur to a bloke as an afterthought, and only when he finally gets around to accepting that he simply can’t get away with ignoring it any longer. But the less fortunate ‘fairer’ sex is simply totty or not, and somehow I don’t think I ever quite managed to achieve totty in the first place if truth be known.

So as I stagger towards my pumpkin shaped nemesis, confused and assisted in equal parts by the seemingly ever-increasing pace of life around me, and not sure if I should feel deprived by my failure to recognise the passing milestones of my middle age, him-indoors sits quietly in the executive recliner, clutching a multi-purpose remote control and mulling the problem of which of the big-boys toys he can talk me into next.

What ever happened to the three ages of my inner woman?

The poor maiden lass is still there inside me somewhere, just as confused by life as she ever was, and popping out occasionally to ensure that I am still capable of surprising or embarrassing myself in equal measure from time to time.

Mother? There is a sort of sad inevitability to the thought that the amazing mix of pleasure and pain that has accompanied my every waking moment of parenthood, and some of the nightmares of my sleeping moments too, though these might begin to fade now the nest is empty. But sadly, so few of the threads of life’s rich tapestry seem to retain their full colour in the daily wash, and perhaps that is sometimes for the best since the howling pain that is the loss of a loved one would be an incredibly dark hole to live in for ever.

Wise woman? I dunno about that one, I think I might be beginning to have problems remembering the questions, never mind the answers. So I guess that just leaves crone?

Not blooming yet mate! The dread midnight pumpkin may be waiting quietly just out of sight, but unlike Patrick McGoohan, inevitably chased by a big, wobbly pink balloon called Rover, my big round destiny remains just a shadow on the horizon, as certain as a looming exam result, but not yet half so scary. After all with a bit of imagination and a half full spice rack I know I can make just about anything palatable.

pass this on to a friend -

Explore: