Confessions of a Forty Something F##k Up

by Alexandra Potter

  Because sometimes happiness isn’t a choice. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you can’t find joy. Which is why I’ve decided to stop beating myself up by desperately seeking happiness and give myself the permission to feel exactly how I feel, when I feel it. In fact, maybe, it’s not happiness we should be looking for after all – but acceptance.

  I’m grateful for:

  Taking the pressure off myself.

  Knowing there are going to be moments in life when you’ll feel upset or scared or unhappy, just like there are times when you’ll feel joyful and amazing and happy.

  All those wonderful doctors and professionals and therapists, who are always there if it’s not just about feeling a bit fed up for a while, but something much more than that.

  Being happy today, and it had nothing to do with a motivational quote.*

  The Doctor’s Appointment

  Monday morning finds me sitting in my GP’s waiting room, booked in for a pap smear. Like I said, no one said this health business was supposed to be fun.

  ‘Penelope Stevens?’

  Hearing my name being called, I see the nurse appear holding a clipboard. As I stand up to follow her into her room, she gives me a warm smile that puts me immediately at ease. Nurses are just fab, aren’t they?

  So then we get down to business. She takes my details and asks me when my last period was.

  ‘Um . . .’ It suddenly strikes me that I can’t remember. I’ve felt a bit PMS-y for ages. In fact, hang on, now I’m thinking about it, wasn’t it supposed to be last week?

  ‘Don’t worry, let me give you a calendar,’ she smiles, passing me one. ‘It’s often easier this way.’

  I stare at the dates. ‘Well, actually, it was supposed to be the middle of the month . . .’

  ‘Hmm. I see.’ She’s still smiling. ‘Is there any reason you can think of why it might be late?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you been sexually active?’

  Oh fuck. Johnny.

  ‘Well, yes, but that’s impossible,’ I say briskly, shutting down that thought as soon as it surfaces.

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised – one of my patients is forty-seven and pregnant with twins,’ she continues. Then, seeing my expression, she adds quickly, ‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? If you’d like to pop behind the screen and get undressed from the waist down, then just hop on the bed . . .’

  I do as I’m told. It’s a bit uncomfortable. A speculum is both an instrument of torture and an instrument that saves life. I focus on the ceiling tiles as the nurse chats away, trying to put me at ease as she works efficiently. There’s a bit of plastic that’s broken around one of the spotlights. One of the bulbs is out.

  ‘OK, all done,’ she smiles cheerfully, taking off her surgical gloves and handing me some paper towels.

  ‘That was quick,’ I smile gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

  As she disappears behind the curtain, I quickly get dressed.

  ‘Now, Penelope,’ she says as I reappear, ‘I’d just like you to do a urine sample for me.’ She holds out a little plastic bottle. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  As I sit on the loo, peeing into that little plastic bottle, a million different thoughts are going through my mind. Emotions are threatening to surface. It’s hard to get a handle on them all, so I don’t even try. Don’t go there, Nell. I screw on the plastic top tightly, give the bottle a quick rinse under the sink and dry it with a paper towel. The amber liquid feels warm in my hand. Whatever you do, just don’t go there.

  ‘You’re not pregnant.’ The nurse is matter of fact. ‘So we can rule that out.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think for a minute—’

  ‘But it does mean most likely you’re going through the perimenopause.’

  ‘Right, yes, I see.’

  In the space of a few minutes, the pendulum of youth has swung from Still Fertile and Possibly Pregnant to Old Crone with Rotten Eggs. Not that I wasn’t already aware of my biological clock – what woman isn’t?

  From the moment I got my first period, everyone has had an opinion about my fertility. From the teacher at school who showed my class of thirteen-year-old girls our first sex education video and explained about contraception, warning against teenage pregnancy, to the nurse giving me a pap smear at thirty-three who told me, in no uncertain terms, that if I wanted children I needed to ‘put a fire underneath it, honey’.

  So it comes as no surprise that for most of my life the thought of finding myself pregnant was the most terrifying thing in the world – until the poles unexpectedly switched, and suddenly more terrifying was the thought of leaving it too late.

  ‘Which would explain your periods becoming erratic,’ the nurse is saying now. ‘You might find they get heavier, or lighter, and there can be other symptoms.’

  ‘Symptoms?’

  ‘Hot flushes can be quite common, as can night sweats and mood swings, even depression . . . oh yes, and weight gain.’

  This Monday morning is just getting better and better.

  ‘And how long does this usually last for?’

  I’m hoping a few months, a year at the most for good behaviour.

  ‘Oh, it can be anything from a few years to about ten.’

  ‘Ten years?’ Murderers get out in less.

  ‘Yes,’ she smiles brightly, ‘but don’t worry; usually by then you’ll have reached the menopause.’

  I force a smile. ‘Well, at least that’s something to look forward to.’

  I’m grateful for:

  All the money I’m going to save on tampons when the big M finally happens.

  The family-size packet of cheese puffs and bottle of wine I bought on the way home, because if I’m going to be battling night sweats and depression, I need more than salads and green juice.

  A bona fide reason for weight gain, and not just that I ate the entire packet of cheese puffs.

  The beacon of hope that is the forty-seven-year-old pregnant lady with twins, not only for dialling down the panic by showing me that I have a few years left BITL, but for being a goddam superwoman.

  Not actually being forty-seven and pregnant with twins; I feel exhausted just thinking about it.

  Panic and Potential

  It’s been a week now since I bumped into Max, and I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t want to interfere – I promised – but I’m worried. Too many times I’ve read tragic stories in the news about what happens when the pressure becomes too much. Men just like Max. He was the life and soul of the party. He’d just had a new baby, he seemed so happy. All his friends loved him. He was a brilliant husband and dad.

  I resolve to check in on him daily and bombard him with texts and voice messages. Basically it’s the opposite of ghosting. It drives him potty and he begs me to stop. I refuse. I’m like a kidnapper demanding a ransom: he speaks to Michelle and he’ll get his life back; a life that doesn’t include about twenty messages and several missed calls a day.

  Meanwhile, I’m feeling a bit depressed after my doctor’s visit. Being perimenopausal might not be as bad as losing your job (It’s worse! I’m joking. Sort of.), but at least you can get another job, whereas I’m looking at a future of night sweats and hot flushes and elasticated trousers, because nothing else is going to fit me after I’ve gained all that weight.

  Of course, I realize this is just a new stage of life, and one that – if all this midlife stuff is to be believed – I should be embracing. But what if you’re not ready for this new stage? What if you haven’t even reached the old stage yet? Even if you’re not sure about having kids it’s comforting to know you’ve got options. No one wants to be The Woman For Whom Time Ran Out. You want to be the one making the decisions. Sitting on the fence is one thing, but what happens when the fence is taken away from you? Do you jump off joyfully or fall crashing to the floor?

  I don’t know, but I’m sure someone has written an article about it. Because of course it’s a free-for-all when it comes to
women and the issue of children. I’ve lost count of the number of articles I’ve read about the perils of being a teenage/single/older mum (delete depending on what day it is). The warnings from ‘experts’ against focusing on your career and leaving it too late, versus the shaming of teenage pregnancy. For young women today, to freeze or not to freeze, that is now the question. And let’s not forget the endless debates about those who choose not to have children.

  Everyone has an opinion about it. It’s quite strange really, when you think about it, because we just accept it as normal. For years I’ve been told that as a woman my thirty-fifth birthday was to be spent panicking as my fertility threw itself off a cliff. While if you believe everything you read, turning fifty appears to hold the joys of dealing with The Menopause.

  I can’t wait!

  Meanwhile, men get to buy a sports car and a leather jacket.

  Such is my excitement that I talk about this in my latest Confessions podcast. I also talk about Johnny. Being reminded of him at the doctor’s is partly the reason for my slump. I’m still no closer to working out why he ghosted me, but I have a feeling it’s going to be one of those unsolved crimes. ‘The Date That Vanished: A True-Life Mystery’.

  However, I have worked out that it’s not really him I miss – after all, we only went on three dates – but all the promise that came with him. Being an anonymous podcaster, I refer to him as Mr Potential because, if I’m honest with myself, that’s what I was probably the most excited about.

  It’s a dangerous thing, potential.

  I’m grateful for:

  ‘Feeling a bit depressed’ and in a ‘slump’ for being a world away from The Fear.

  Having so many ways to contact (hassle) Max: email, text, WhatsApp, phone call (though he might not share my gratitude).

  My podcast – I have thirty-two listeners!

  The miracles of modern science for being able to help The Woman For Whom Time Ran Out become The Woman Who Has Options.

  Not panicking.*

  Le Mieux est L’Ennemi du Bien

  At the weekend I go over to Cricket’s as a local joiner has finished making her little library bookcase. Shaped like a house, it’s erected on stilts so that it sits over the railings, facing the pavement. Now we’ve just got to stock it with books.

  ‘What about some Steinbeck?’

  We’re standing in the front garden surrounded by cardboard boxes, the contents of which have been taken from the bookcases indoors, trying to select what to put on the shelves. Cricket is in a really good mood. In fact, I’d say it’s the most energized I’ve seen her. The project has given her a whole new lease of life.

  ‘Ooh yes,’ I nod approvingly, as Cricket slots a couple next to some of Monty’s well-thumbed John le Carré paperbacks and the collected works of Voltaire. ‘The Grapes of Wrath is one of my favourite books ever.’ I trace my finger down the raised gilt bands on the spine. ‘Hang on a minute . . .’ I pick it up and flick open the first few pages, then stare at the imprint with disbelief. ‘This is a first edition!’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ replies Cricket cheerfully. She continues rootling through the box. ‘How are we feeling about poetry?’ She waves a volume of Keats at me.

  ‘Cricket, this is really valuable! We can’t put it out here.’ I can’t believe I’m actually holding a first-edition Steinbeck. Somebody pinch me.

  ‘Why not? I’ve read it. Let someone else read it now. As Monty always said, books are meant for sharing, not owning. No point in it just being stuck in my bookcase.’

  It’s a good argument and a view I share – I’m always passing along books – but then mine are usually paperbacks that have been dropped in the bath. Not rare and extremely expensive classics.

  ‘Let’s just keep the first editions to one side for now,’ I suggest, not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm by telling her it will probably end up on someone else’s bookcase, most likely a rich collector’s.

  ‘Whatever you think,’ she beams, holding out a stack of hardbacks. ‘So tell me, what did we decide about poetry?’

  We carry on until late afternoon, sorting through books and selecting what to go on the three small shelves. In theory it should take twenty minutes. An hour tops, if you’re really indecisive. But that wouldn’t allow for chatting to all the different passers-by who, interested in what we’re doing, stop to ask questions.

  Most people in the neighbourhood have heard about the closure of the library and share our dismay; a free little library is exactly what the community needs, and their response is enthusiastic and encouraging. Several people offer up their used books, others ask questions about setting up their own library, while some just take the opportunity to stop and chat.

  Every so often I catch myself looking across at Cricket, deep in conversation with someone, and can’t help smiling. It’s not just the little library that’s coming alive, it’s Cricket too. By giving something to the community, she’s getting so much more back. People offer to drop by with books, numbers are swapped, introductions are made, hands are shaken and cheeks are kissed.

  I listen to the stories of people who have lived here twenty, thirty, even forty years, telling me about how much the area has changed, how it used to be mostly antiques shops before it became gentrified and all the designer shops moved in, ‘pushing up prices and pushing people out’. While on the flipside I meet a couple from New York who have recently moved to the area and are happily embracing the designer lifestyle, and chat to the mother of a little girl, who offers up some of her children’s books while confessing to being sick of looking at her phone but not having time to read.

  ‘Word by word, page by page,’ Cricket tells her cheerfully, ‘that’s how a writer writes and how a reader should read. You’ll get there in the end. Doesn’t matter if it takes six months or a year or longer to finish it. That’s what I always used to tell my husband.’

  She ends up borrowing The Great Gatsby.

  ‘Well, that was fun,’ I say, as we finally say goodbye to the last person and make our way inside with our empty boxes. We already had to replenish the shelves during the afternoon, as so many people were eager to borrow books.

  ‘Monty would have loved it,’ says Cricket, climbing the front steps and closing the door behind us. ‘Seeing everyone enjoying his books, it was like having him back again.’

  I follow her into the Bumblebee-yellow living room and we flop onto opposite ends of the sofa, sinking back into the worn velvet that’s been warmed by the afternoon sun. For a few moments we both rest our heads and close our eyes, bathed in the shafts of light that stream in from the French windows. The room is quiet but for the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I read the letter, you know.’

  Still resting my head on the sofa, I turn sideways and look across at Cricket. Her eyes are still closed.

  ‘It was a love letter to Monty from Pablo.’

  ‘I didn’t read it,’ I say quickly. It’s the first time we’ve spoken about it. ‘I just saw the photograph. I’m sorry, it just fell out of the envelope—’

  ‘My dear girl, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ Opening her eyes, she turns to meet mine. ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘That my husband loved a man before he loved me?’ A slow smile reaches her eyes. ‘No, I’m not.’

  We both look at each other, our cheeks still resting on the velvet.

  ‘They met in Paris when they were in their early twenties,’ she continues quietly. ‘Pablo was a painter. Monty a struggling playwright. They became lovers. Monty never wanted me to know. He was terribly ashamed of that part of himself. It’s not like today. The younger generation are so fluid about sexuality, there’s no shame . . . and why should there be? But it was different in those days. And I loved him, so I pretended I didn’t know his secret.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘All along,’ she replies, without missing a beat. ‘From our very first date, I knew Monty had a past. T
here were rumours. I suspected. I found a telegram, a few notes, a photograph . . . it didn’t take much to piece it all together.’

  There’s a pause as she casts her mind back.

  ‘I knew Pablo had been his first love and theirs had been a brief but passionate affair. They reconnected later in life when Monty became ill. I saw a card that I wasn’t supposed to see at the hospital. A missed call from a Spanish number on his phone. I never let him know.’

  Listening to Cricket, I wonder if I could be so accepting. ‘You’re an amazing woman.’

  ‘Monty was an amazing man,’ she replies simply. ‘He wasn’t perfect, but who is? What is? Le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.’

  I frown, not understanding.

  ‘Voltaire, the French philosopher, wrote “the best is the enemy of the good”,’ she explains. ‘Though I think a better translation would be, “don’t let perfect be the enemy of good”.’

  I absorb the words, twisting the phrase around in my mind.

  ‘Would I choose that my husband loved a man before he loved me?’ She turns her gaze to the ceiling, where the large ornate chandelier is catching the light. ‘No, and I struggled with it at first. Neither would I choose his shocking temper and his filthy habit of stubbing out cigarettes on his saucer. Or his fondness for finishing my Times crossword.

  ‘But would I choose his generosity and his compassion? His brilliant mind and ability to quote Derek and Clive off by heart? Or how when I was in a room with him he made me feel like I wouldn’t care if the rest of the world ceased to be?’

  With our heads still resting upon the back of the sofa, we both watch the light display of rainbow prisms dancing around the walls. It’s pretty obvious this isn’t a question.

  ‘Damn right I would. Every single time.’

  Text Exchange with Max

  I told Michelle last night. You were right, I should have told her ages ago. Anyway, thanks for being such a good friend, Nell.

  Oh good! I’m so glad. How’s Michelle taken it?