THIS is my penultimate column.
Yes, folks, I’m off, hitting the road, finishing up, calling it quits . . . I’m out of here in two weeks in pursuit of that elusive brass ring, euphemistically referred to in this decade as work-life-balance.
Sure, I’ll miss the pressure of daily deadlines, night shifts, working weekends and public holidays. What’s not to miss? I enjoy the fact that I’m writing this column at 2am.
And for those of you who’ve been counting (that’s you, Mum), this is column number 19.
I could have made this my last blurb, but I figured 20 was a nice round number on which to wrap up This Life.
But before I go, like any struggling TV soap, I thought it only proper (and because I’m hoping to save the best until last) to do a flashback of sorts on the column that was - is - This Life.
[Cue dream sequence]This Life started with a flurry on September 12 last year when I proclaimed - and still maintain - that women need wives as well. This observation was not new, but the tongue-in-cheek style of delivery was unfamiliar to regular Saturday readers of The Advertiser.
To my delight, and my mother’s eternal cringe, I was branded sexist and stupid by some readers (still don’t get the sexist bit) and had various offers from well-intentioned men to fill the position.
The obvious follow-up to this column was to write about finding a husband and the dating dilemma facing people over 40. I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, nor could I hold a candle to the perky Sarah Jessica Parker (despite being a tad younger), but I recommended at the time that midlife crisis singles should avail themselves of whatever means and opportunities possible, whether it be logging online to find love, hassling friends for blind dates or busting a few moves at the local meat market, to find a mate. Upon reflection, this column reeked of me being rather desperate and dateless; this was true at the time and is true still (no flowers by request).
Though in 2009, I’m more optimistic that I will find “the one” when the time is right and that there’s no need to rush into a full-blown romance.
From here I ventured down the well-worn path of the female columnist and tackled the subjects of dieting and exercise. The column was chock-full of good advice about healthy eating and adopting a gym buddy - pity I didn’t read it again until now, I could have saved myself three or four kilos.
And then cosmetic and chemical enhancements came in for some close inspection as summer approached.
I took the high moral ground on this topic and scoffed at high-maintenance women lollying around in towels getting their bits seen to. Several months later and in need of some major TLC myself, I recant. Get me to the day spa, and quick.
One of my favourite pieces was an epic 1800-word recollection of my golden years at The Square high school; old boyfriends, schoolyard bullying, students behaving badly . . . great memories.
This column was apparently sent interstate and around the world to former classmates of mine in the 70s. Reminiscing on a global scale. Nice one.
What I have found most amusing about writing This Life is how some people I know imagine that I’m writing about them or a mutual friend. Talk about having an inflated opinion of themselves! What a cheek. When they ring and ask, ‘was that me’ I reply `no, that was so-and-so’.
But of course it is them I’m writing about (silly buggers), but I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing for sure, nor the ammunition to fire a shot back in anger.
The burning issue of commitment in relationships, sleep deprivation, New Year’s resolutions, downsizing my car, even Kevin Rudd’s first stimulus package all became column fodder.
My collection of blonde friends also came in for the occasional bagging. By way of an update, my oldest and blondest buddy has snagged herself a toy boy 14 years her junior. Who says blondes are dumb?
Interestingly, the column before this, warning about the rise of shopping trolley rage, is the highest-ranked blog entry on our website. Regular supermarket shoppers know a special when they see one.
So this is it, almost.
Until next week.
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