KEY POINTS:
At first glance, I had sympathy for the 57-year-old Wellington artist turned away from two bars last week because, he alleges, he was too old. He's roughly my age and I'd be peeved if a bouncer told me to go home to a cup of Horlicks.
These past
weeks I've felt particularly old, as I've watched two of my children disappear through the departure gates to jobs overseas. Now all my kids live in Australia, Britain or the US, not, as some politicians say, for better wages, but because life offers more excitement, challenge and opportunities when you're young and far from home.
So you try to hold back the tears, pray they won't come to harm, and wave them goodbye.
You miss them like crazy and wonder where the years went. You remember nagging about table manners, keeping bedrooms tidy, testing spelling, reading stories, helping with projects. Sometimes you wondered why you bothered, when reports came home from school with disparaging comments about the incorrect way your daughter held her pen - guaranteed to hold her creative talents in check.
So much for petty criticism. That apparently disadvantaged child has graduated with a Fine Arts degree. And, after some eight years of driving her to flute and singing lessons each week, encouraging practice, and sitting nervously outside Trinity College exam rooms until LTCL level was attained, she's joined The Ruby Suns, touring America and watching their CD climb the charts, thanks to rave reviews.
At least I can listen to her singing and flute-playing on my stereo while she's so far away.
Emails from my daughters in London have me laughing out loud, as I remember now, thanks to the tyranny of distance, how funny they can be. My son in Sydney delights me with his huge appreciation of what it's like to be happy doing a job you love.
Memories - the prerogative of oldies. Fed up with their scribbling on bedroom walls, I once painted the loo walls with high-gloss and supplied markers for the kids' uninhibited self-expression. The spelling mistakes became family legend - "Rupert is a full" was one oft-repeated joke, and "hi ho, hi ho, it's oof to wack we go" was another.
And "oof to wack" was how I felt this week when I read a Sydney Morning Herald review of American beauty editor Charla Krupp's book, How Not To Look Old, illustrated with a photo of Madonna who's had so much work she looks dessicated.
But who am I to carp, I thought, as I read through Krupp's no-noes. Forbidden and described as OL (old lady) are grey hairs and high ponytails. But how am I supposed to keep my hair out of my eyes while struggling against a gale-force northerly and trying to keep the nets from blowing off the vineyard? Rush off first for a cut and blow-wave? And is anything more ageing than dyed hair, especially on men? I should, according to Krupp, have "highlights" around my face. Sweetheart, that comes later when I sit down with a bottle of Pinot Noir.
My other OL sins include thinning hair (mea culpa, after drastic weight loss last year, but it's growing back, I promise), and wearing Crocs. I know they're ugly, but they're the best for farmwork when it's stifling hot and you're on your feet all day.
I guess there's always the opportunity for me to scrub my filthy feet, paint my nails, don Robert Clergeries and a strappy dress, then roar off to the big smoke in the Aston Martin with its sexy owner for champagne and oysters. That keeps me frisky.
But I should do more to be Y & H (younger and hipper), says Krupp, by having three pairs of glasses - stylish for the office, wild weekend specs, and bejewelled or pearl-encrusted for glamour. She also ticks botox and other spooky artificial treatments.
I find this all a bit tragic, our obsession with looking Y & H.
I remember seeing Marti Friedlander's extraordinary photos of kuia, their faces covered in lines. They looked beautiful - serene, content and enriched by their lives' happy and sad experiences. Botox, hair dye, glasses or big hair would make them truly grotesque.
And isn't basking in the success and happiness of our grown-up children a greater tonic than the latest beauty treatments or fashion trends? Let's get things into perspective. Instead of whinging to the Human Rights Commission, that Wellington artist should be proud he's considered too experienced to join the conformist atmosphere of youths' watering holes. We may be oldies, but who wants to be a goodie? Me, I'd much rather be, in Paul Simon's words, still crazy after all these years.
