On being fifty-plus

A bit of introspection today.

Yesterday, an article popped up in my feed in one of my social media spaces. One of those ones that you know has been selected for you based on an algorithm. This one was all about fashion mistakes that middle aged women make, that make them look older. I was proud of my middle aged sisterhood for responding by flipping the article the collective bird in the comments section.

But it set me thinking.

Once we hit this patch on life's journey, we're constantly being given hints and tips on looking younger, slimmer, more attractive. Now, I understand that on a purely instinctual level, men are more likely to be attracted to women who are (or appear to be) of reproductive age. It's that whole hard-coded drive to procreate. Attracting a mate is in the very DNA of living things.

But for those of us whose reproductive years are behind us, surely there are more important things to do than pretend to still be young enough to gestate?

Use our cosmetics (tested on animals) to make yourself look younger and more attractive to men!

Ugh.

I'm not suggesting that we neglect our skin care regimes and abdicate stewardship of bodies and faces. But surely we can move on from this notion that old=ugly? My skin is pretty good, but it is unmistakably the skin of a woman in her mid 50s. And why is that a bad thing? I am a woman in her mid 50s. My skin has housed me all that time. It has stretched as I grew up or got larger through pregnancy or gluttony. It has also (albeit less frequently and less dramatically) shrunk, after childbirth or due to diet-and-exercise. It bears the marks of the story of my life so far. A scar on my cheek from a close encounter of the painful kind with a steering wheel. Another across my brow bone, where said brow bone once made a bid for freedom and tried to forge a new life for itself on the outside of my skin. Stretch marks like laddered tights all over my hips where growing babies tested the limits of its capacity to stretch. Inevitably, for a woman who grew up in a sunny country in the days before people cared about sunblock, I have a few of the clusters of melanin referred to as age spots. I'm carrying far too much weight, and for the sake of my health, I should shed it. But my skin soldiers on, housing all the excess me and taking it in its stride.

You've got to respect that. Come on.

Stop wearing that. It ages you. Wear this. It makes you look younger.

But I'm not younger. And why is that a bad thing? I've had almost 55 years of doing stuff. There's no way all that stuff could have fitted into a shorter period of time. 12 years at school, almost 30 years of marriage, a master's degree, a career spanning 25 years, two adult sons. Races run, songs sung, awards received, conferences attended (and addressed), loss, grief, joy, achievement, triumph, defeat. I've acquired skills and knowledge. I've been places and done things.

Judging by the attitudes of my peers, it takes this long to find the sodthat button and push it with an unrepentant, if slightly arthritic forefinger.

These days, I spend most of my days dressed in overalls and safety boots. I'm usually covered in sawdust and/or paint. Quite often my face is obscured by safety goggles and a dust mask. Does my bum look big in that? Probably. Because it is big in that... and every other thing I wear. Does it age me? Almost certainly, because the sawdust will emphasise my wrinkles. I'm sure the appearance police would have a conniption.

It's all about outward appearances. We're obsessed. How old do you look? How slim do you look? Wear blocks of colour to look taller. Wear vertical stripes to look slimmer. Wear lilac eye shadow to look younger.

Surely it should be less about looking and more about being and doing?

So your outfit makes you look young, but you treat people like dirt? Is that okay? You have a tight tush but you've never helped anyone out of a tight spot. Is that cool? Your skin looks like that of a woman 15 years younger, but your cosmetics are wrecking the planet. Is that good?

I believe Roald Dahl said it very well (in The Twits):

"A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely."

Gaggle of middle aged women (I'm in white)

So yeah. See that gaggle of middle aged women over there? You think they look faintly ridiculous in their inappropriate outfits. You wonder if they realise that you and your friends are laughing at them. You wonder if they realise that their confidence is misplaced, after all they lost their power to turn heads at least a decade ago.

Well, eat your heart out. They've earned their stripes. They don't care that men aren't drooling over them (in fact they feel quite liberated by that fact). It's taken them fifty-plus years to reach this point and they're going to rock it. Hard.

Women's magazines are full of advice for them.

They don't give a rat's ass.

The story of a chaise

Some time ago, I acquired a chaise that was looking very sorry for itself. It came (as so many of my pieces do) from someone who had planned to do something with it, but had never got that far.

Very sorry for itself

It looked very sad. Like Corduroy the bear, it even had a missing button. More than one, in fact.

Missing more than one button

Clearly, it needed some TLC. Fortunately, it had come to the right place.

I toyed with ideas. Was I going to do something outrageous? Was I going to go for an upmarket, elegant look?

As most upcyclers will tell you, the first step is to see what you've got, by stripping off the outer layers.When I took off the fabric, it became clear that this was going to be much more than just a re-cover job: the webbing was perished and friable. I could literally crumble it between finger and thumb. Not what you want from the very thing that is going to support your weight!

The webbing was perished

The foam was okay-ish, but I thought that I might as well replace it too, while I was at it.

The foam was okay-ish

The finish on the frame was pretty badly damaged. So I sanded that back to see whether it might be worth going the clear wax route. But the wood, while good quality, was such a mishmash of colours, that I thought it would be better to finish it with a coat of something-or-other.

Such a mishmash of colours

By now, I was leaning toward the more elegant end of the scale, so I opted for black ash. I chose an exterior wood treatment finish, simply because it would be more durable.

First coat of black ash going on

Then I replaced the webbing, and the foam, adding a layer of new wadding (made from recycled fabrics).

New foam and webbing

And of course, I covered it all with a layer of flame retardant calico. Because safety!

Flame retardant calico

Because mustard yellows are so on trend at the moment, and look so great with black, I had subconsciously found myself gravitating that way on my (many) visits to my favourite fabric shop. And because I wanted that luxury look, I had to go with velvet.

I had to go with velvet

But I wanted to add a touch of mischief or levity or quirkiness or something. After all, why be ordinary? I had decided to use buttons only on the back of the chaise. I don't know about you, but I don't find it comfortable to sit on buttons. I decided these were going to be a tad outrageous. I went with covered buttons, for which I used a bright, floral fabric, cutting the covers from different sections of the fabric to make sure no two were the same.

Covered buttons

I also decided to replace the screw cover cap/plug doohickeys (see how the correct terminology just trips from my fingers?) with more of the covered buttons.

More covered buttons

Of course, I covered the staples with some lovely trim.

Et voila. Now for sale for £450.

On the work front

The promised update about our work situation. I so wish this could be an exultant post, but alas. Many of you already know much of what follows, and have been steadfastly supportive with your time, your energy and even your money. We are more grateful than we could possibly say.

We are both still without a source of income.

We have gone through the process of  'signing on' at the DWP (aka the job centre), and receiving the weekly stipend. If anyone ever tries to tell you that living on benefits is the life of Riley, they lie. The amount we received wouldn't even have fed us, let alone put fuel in our car and covered our utility bills. And as for any mortgage or rent payments... Well, let's not even go there.

That provision was short-lived in any case, because as soon as the sale of our house went through, we had the proceeds from the sale to live on, and - quite understandably - our benefits were stopped.

Nevertheless, we continue to sign on every fortnight, in order that our national insurance payments are maintained. Most of the advisers we see are kind-but-realistic. They know we're not trying to milk the system. They also know we don't fit into the quick win box in the local job market.

Occasionally, we will see someone who will go through the 'have you tried..?' and 'why don't you try..?' checklist. Of course, we have tried everything on that list. More than once. On those visits, it's hard to remain civil.

We attend job fairs, just in case. And at the last one, we were advised that there is a government funded course on how to become self-employed, with the added possibility of a small amount of start-up financial assistance.

Grow your own Business course

Mr Namasi and I are now working our way through that course together. He with a view to setting up an IT consultancy, and me with a view to formalising Karyn's Kreations into something more than a creative (kreative?) outlet.

If, therefore, you happen to know of any small businesses, particularly in the fashion and/or luxury brands arena, that might be looking to outsource their IT management, or are looking for consultancy support through a transformation/transition phase, please contact this man.

If, on the other hand, you know of any channels through which I might be able to sell some of my kreations, please contact me through the comments section below.

I promise that my next post will be more upbeat. 

Where do I begin?

So much has happened since I last updated this blog! At that time:

• the sale of our house was going through and we were looking for a rental property that would allow us to have our beloved Jess-dog and grandkitten, Gimli
• we were both unemployed and looking for work.

Let's begin by addressing the first of those two points today, shall we? I'll look at the second one in my next post.

The sale of our house duly went through, and we moved out. Friends of ours were travelling abroad for five weeks around the time of our scheduled move, and asked us if we would house-sit for them. This immediately relieved some of the house-hunting pressure. Since they live a very short distance from the house we were selling, it was very convenient to be able to move out while still packing up and cleaning. The fact that their home and garden are beautiful and well-maintained was an added bonus.

The search for a new home continued during this time. All the pet-friendly rental houses that we viewed within our budget were utterly depressing. Many of them were small and poky... and those were the better ones! In some cases, the word 'squalid' wouldn't be an overstatement.

Of course, most landlords had put in some effort for the viewings, but nothing could be done to hide the mountains of rubbish in neighbouring gardens, the derelict cars and/or fridges on display, and the graffiti on walls and fences. Other landlords showed total disregard for their prospective tenants, with filthy carpets and appalling decor.

One little cottage ticked so many of our boxes...except for the lack of decent broadband. For us, this was a deal breaker. It was very isolated, so no plans were in place to lay fibre there any time soon, and it wasn't an expense the landlord was looking to take on.

We were feeling pretty discouraged.

Then a friend, told us of a property in a little village not far from where we had been living. The property belonged to a client of his who would have no problem with our pets. The house was bigger than we were looking for and way outside our budget, but we took a look anyway.

And that was it. Nowhere else would do after that.

And this is how we come to be living in the most wonderful house in the world:

The most wonderful house in the world

A 19th century thatched cottage with a lovely, low maintenance garden and outdoor living area. The perfect space for a craft studio for me inside and a stone workshop outside. As well as a lovely office for Mr Namasi (which is where I am sitting as I type this post). Nothing in the cottage is quite straight, and our taller friends can't stand upright on the ground floor. I have been able to channel my inner bohemian in addressing the interior decor.

The population of the village is a whopping 700 souls. During harvest, tractors and other farm vehicles drove right past our front door. And just a few steps from that same front door, there are several public footpaths.

Just a few steps from our front door

There are two pubs within walking distance, both of which are happy to welcome dogs with well-behaved owners.

Dogs with well-behaved owners welcome

I would be happy to see out my days in this wonderful place. For now, we have a year's lease, paid in advance.

An accommodation conundrum

With our sons now having flown the nest, it seemed a sensible time to downsize. So we put our house on the market.

For various reasons - most of which are covered ad nauseum in other posts on this blog - we decided to rent for a while, until we got a handle on where life is taking us.

It sounds so simple doesn't it?

But it isn't.

Not even a little bit.

Not even slightly.

Jess is not small

You see, we have a dog. Most rental properties don't allow dogs. Even those that say 'pet-friendly' in the description often mean something in a cage/bowl. Many of those who will consider dogs will only allow small ones.

Jess is not small.

But let's pretend for a moment that having a dog isn't a problem. Let's pretend that the dog-loving British nation includes scores of dog-welcoming landlords.

We're still being turned down by property agents before we even get to the viewing stage. Why?

Because we're both currently unemployed. Not by choice, and we're doing everything in our power to change that. But our power has its limits.

One refusal I got from a rental agent this morning said that we needed to be earning at least £27kpa in order to be considered as tenants.

The proceeds from the sale of our house will enable us to pay a year's rent in advance. The entire period of the lease.

Not good enough, apparently.

Now just say for a moment, they find a tenant for that house. A couple earning £27kpa. Then, two months in, they lose their source of income. On a salary on £27kpa, they are unlikely to have been able to build up enough of a savings cushion to tide them over to the end of the lease period.

How is that a better prospect than we are?

Don't get me wrong: I bear this fictitious couple and their £27kpa no ill will. I have no desire to see them homeless, especially since - in my head - they have small children.

But I have no particular desire to see me homeless, either. My arthritic joints are unlikely to cope with sleeping rough. Not that I liked sleeping rough even when my joints were young and sprightly.

According to our estate agent, we're on track to be out by the beginning of next month, and we haven't even been allowed to view any properties.

I'm not entirely sure what we're supposed to do about this situation. If you have any suggestions, let's be having them.

So this is why they're called turbulent times

Those who know me even a little, know that I am not great at the whole flying thing. This is something of a bummer, since - other than Mr Namasi and our two sons - my entire family lives a plane journey away. Mother, sister, nieces, nephew, sisters in law, aunts, uncles... you get the picture.

I'm actually fine, if the plane moves as if on a sheet of glass. I can even handle it if the plane moves something like a car on a tarred road. But any sign of turbulence, and I can't even pretend to be holding it together.

I have even managed to embarrass the otherwise imperturbable Mr Namasi during one particularly rough flight from Oregon, when we caught the edge of a storm that had disrupted air travel all over the US. I can't say I blame him: I was praying in tongues... at the top of my voice. And begging the crew to stop and let me off.

It's the powerlessness, you see. I mean even the pilot can't do a damned thing about the conditions. S/he just has to take us through them. Hopefully safely to the other side. We are all totally at the mercy of forces more powerful than anything we can control. If an air pocket decides to open up and suck the plane a few hundred feet earthwards...so be it. Down we go. If an updraught chooses to slam into the underside of the plane and send us upwards... up we go.

I've used the words 'decides' and 'chooses' as if the forces of nature are sentient. As if they have a will. But I think the fact that they don't makes it worse: they are implacable. They can't be reasoned with. It's not personal: they're not vindictive. They will simply do what they do - what they have always done - without a thought for our convenience, comfort or safety. No matter how much I might beg and plead for them to stop, they are without remorse.

Mr Namasi and I were comparing notes about the place we find ourselves at the moment. And it's so very much like this. I've used the word 'turbulent' to describe life and circumstance before. But today it really hit home how very much like flying through turbulence our current situation really is. We are utterly at the mercy of the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

The closure of John's company: beyond his control. The loss of my workshop: beyond my control. The impenetrability of the job market for the over 50s: beyond our control. The delays in the sale of our house: beyond our control. The factors that led to the closure of the shop where I have working: beyond my control (and pretty much beyond the control of the friend who owns the shop, too). We have some control over the rate at which our bank balance changes, but no control over the inexorable direction of that change.

Our circumstances are what they are. It's not personal. It's not like 'they' are or 'it' is out to get us. And we're being buffeted and blown hither and yon.

We're both desperate for it to stop. We're bruised, battered and exhausted. And yet it goes on. And we have no idea when - or even if - it's going to stop.

When you're flying from A to B, you have some idea of the maximum duration of the discomfort of turbulence. In roughly x hours and y minutes, the plane will land, and you can disembark and - if you feel so inclined - kiss the unspeakably unhygienic ground.

We don't have that assurance. We don't know how much longer this is going to go on. And it's the utter helplessness we find so difficult to deal with.

We have been repeatedly blessed by friends and family with gifts of evenings out, groceries, a couple of days away. I have managed to sell a few of my kreations. We are deeply appreciative of the ongoing trickle of small blessings during this turbulent patch. But we yearn desperately for smoother sky or - better yet - a handy airport. We cling to each other for support and pray... no, wait. Is it still called praying if you're alternating between pleading and throwing a tantrum? We're doing whatever that's called.

Is this flight ever going to even out? Is it ever going to land safely? Is it going to crash?

And of course, now that my thoughts have moved in that direction, I'm imagining a cold caller saying "We have reason to believe you have been injured in an accident that wasn't your fault..."

"Yes, as it happens. My metaphorical plane has crashed into the side of a metaphorical mountain. Do you offer any kind of compensation?"

Reflections on an austerity budget

Not that long ago, Mr Namasi and I had two good salaries coming in: he had an executive  job in the city, and I had a very respectable career in the Learning & Development field (don't worry if you don't know what that is - most people don't).

But, after a quarter of a century, I had become disenchanted with the L&D field. Luminaries in the field were standing on platforms saying things I had been saying for years without anyone taking the blindest bit of notice. I was having the same conversations with clients I had been having for a decade and more. People constantly used the word 'innovation', but seldom meant it. And my mental health wasn't great.

So, because Mr Namasi was earning a good salary and our sons were grown up, we decided that we could afford for me to embark on this next chapter: making, upcycling, crafting and doing. I was as happy as Larry, but I was making little to no money. It didn't matter, though.

Then Mr Namasi's company was closed down.

By 23 December 2016, we had gone from two good salaries to none. And the job market for the over 50s is looking bleak, to say the least.

So we instituted what we call our 'austerity budget'.

This involved some very obvious things like not eating out, not buying new clothes, cutting out luxuries, reducing our use of the car and so on.

We changed our buying patterns: shopping at cheaper supermarkets, checking out the reduced section, using cheaper brands, reducing our meat consumption, buying cheaper cuts of the meat we do eat, buying frozen instead of fresh, etc.

We changed our eating patterns, too: instead of cooking up a whole pack of bacon (for example) for a single meal, we now spread it over two or three meals. We substitute pulses for meat (lentil Bolognese, anyone?). We tweak recipes to leave out more expensive ingredients. We try to use what herbs/spices we already have.

We made a conscious effort to decrease our wastage. So we deliberately plan meals around what we've got in the fridge, so that the half bag of salad or two lonely carrots are eaten before they become irredeemable.

Best. Toothpaste. Ever.

We accept gifts without taking offence - seeing them for the acts of love they are. Our pantry is occasionally bolstered by items donated by friends, and we were recently blessed out of our socks to receive pretty much a year's supply of our preferred toothpaste (an environmentally friendly, health shop brand not available in supermarkets, and carrying a comparatively hefty price tag).

We arrive empty handed at friends' home when invited for a meal, and trust that they will forgive us the lack of a bottle of wine/bunch of flowers/box of chocolates for the host/ess.

We give home made gifts for birthdays, weddings, etc. and trust that the recipient will appreciate the thought, love and effort that went into making something instead of buying something.

Home made body lotion

We try to diy as much as possible: mending broken things we would normally just replace, and so on. I even had a go at making my own body lotion, using up dregs from various bottles in my dressing table, together with various oils and so forth I had to hand. The resultant concoction is a little weird, but it will do for now, and it didn't cost me a penny.

And then there's always Freecyle/Freegle and their ilk. 

Does this sound miserable to you?

Well, it isn't. It's something of a journey of discovery. An adventure. And we're in it together. We make no bones about the fact that it's tough, but we find that adopting a positive attitude, and being flexible about unexpected results makes it totally bearable. Even fun.

We recently attended the wedding of our younger son's best friend. The fresh-faced young couple spoke their vows, committing to the better, worse, richer, poorer, sickness and health. And we thought about how, in the 29 years we've been married, we've experienced - and survived - all those things. And right now, worse, poorer and sickness (if you count my ongoing battles with depression) are the order of the day.

Don't get me wrong: I'm ready for the austerity budget phase to be over, the sooner the better. But while it lasts, there's no point in being miserable about it.