Herding Monkeys

Another year older and still hanging in there. Yesterday two people asked my age. Yup, very rude. The first was a lady at the FamilySearch library where I volunteer. I was helping her with her research and was chatting to her almost 3 year old grandson who was accompanying her. He was not enamoured with the stuff we had there and was starting to get agitated with his grandmother. So I talked about my childhood in Africa with monkeys in trees and them sliding down the sides of our tents when we camped on the beach. Now don't get me going about camping, definitely not my favourite form of holiday. But as my fingers were flying across the computer keys, I told him about putting a plastic snake on the tent flap to discourage monkeys from entering and stealing our food. His eyes went big and his mouth fell open. I told him that monkeys loved jam and would steal it and then we would have none left for our sandwiches. He was enthralled by the image of a monkey fainting when seeing the toy snake and asked if I could do it again. Well, of course I could. Insert sound effects of a fainting monkey with hand movements that represent a monkey lying on its back. That's when his grandmother said "How old are you?" No, she wasn't being mean and wondering if I had entered my second childhood between keystrokes. I told her that I would soon turn 71 years of age and she gasped and said "Me too." When I was a school student, my ideal job was to work as an English and Art teacher. Although I never achieved my dream due to various circumstances, I am still happy to do story time for little children at the drop of a hat. Maybe even entertain grandmothers on the side as she too seemed to enjoy the tale of life in Africa. After work at the FamilySearch library, I went aquajogging at the hot pools. That's when I was asked for the second time in one day how old I was. This time it was AD, a lady who frequents the pools in the vain hope of losing weight by exercising. Sadly her idea of exercise is to float aimlessly on a pool noodle, not even moving her legs as the hour passes by. I motored past her about 50 times until finally I found my manners and greeted her. She peered at me and asked if I knew her, or if she knew me more likely. I explained that we had actually met 20 years ago and various times through the years and most recently at my son's wedding (plus the dozen times I had seen her at the pools.) She frowned and said "No, last time you were older. Did you have plastic surgery since then?" Now it was my turn for my mouth to drop open in shock. Only in my dreams could I afford cosmetic surgery. Yup, my bank manager would have a heart attack if I ever asked for a loan of that magnitude. So, nope. AD then asked "How old are you??" Putting on the fake smile that heralds me hiding my true self behind a mask, I said "I turn 71 on Sunday." "No, no." she told me. I bit my tongue instead of replying that I should know when my birthday was and how old I would be. But that might be construed as rude, so I slipped the mask on tighter. (Figurative mask guys, not actual masks). She shook her head and said "I am 65 and you must be younger than me." Oh right, was that a compliment? A backhanded one, or a real one? I nodded and continued on with my exercise regime not quite sure what the correct response should have been. Maybe eye rolling is not the right way to deal with this particular lady. Too subtle? 

My sister once asked me why I didn't find a job and stick with it. She was concerned that I wouldn't be an inspiration for my children to follow if I remained at home and let my brain atrophy from lack of use. My father arrived a few days later to reiterate the same idea, so I knew it must have been discussed within the family. By which time in my life I was the mother of five children and it was long past the time that I could attend college and become a teacher. My reply to both of them was that if I found a job I enjoyed, then I would be happy to work 9 to 5.... well actually in Zululand the hours were more likely 7.30 am till 5 pm. Have you ever wondered what life would have been like if you had taken a different road in your past? I truly don't regret getting married to my husband and having my children, and if I had become a teacher, would that future have ever eventuated? Or I could have ended up with a different husband? Recently my brother-in-law died after a long struggle with his health. When I met him, he was full of dreams of becoming a famous author. He was a great story teller, but being an author is a whole different kettle of fish. Anyhow, he never finished writing his stories and now it is too late. My mother was a fantastic tennis player in her youth but as life progressed, she stopped playing and got her joy from watching others play at Wimbledon or at social events. My husband excelled at playing hockey and was named in his school yearbook as being a very fast runner and great player. But hockey wasn't considered manly enough and as he matured, he put his hockey stick away. A good friend of his, Chris, loved surfing. Yes, the Cape waters are freezing, but Chris never let that stop him and balancing his surfboard on his bike, off he would go. As my husband lay dying, I looked Chris up on Google and what do you know? He was now a surfing judge. Well at least one of us kept his sporting dream alive. I was taxiing my grandson to an exam the other day and talking about study leave back in my day. Our class arrived at the Railway station in our town (about 2 miles/4 km from home). The guys had their surfboards, and we all had brown bagged lunches and spare clothes and off we chugged. The train was a steam engine with smuts flying like black snow in the air. Us giggling girls congregated in one of the cabins and the boys climbed out their window and hand over hand, on the outside of the train, made their way to our section. How no one died is still a mystery. Okay, the train was only going about 20 kph, but still a fall would have been unfortunate. We returned that evening sunburnt and tired, and having done absolutely no studying at all. The clever students still passed their exams with flying colours and the rest of us scraped through the best we could. The beach was 40 km away from town, but worth every smut in the eye and every dried out sandwich. I think the train ride took a whole 3 hours each way, because, seriously, we seemed to stop at every sugar cane stick along the way. 

Did I ever ask an actual professional what career I should pursue? Well, we did have a career guidance counselor at school. Jack Field. Jack was a war veteran and never seemed to smile. He wore the same jacket year in year out and us students wondered if he had bought a job lot of off white jackets. Anyhow, I sat down in his office and he looked at me and then at the paper in front of him and gave me some sage advice. "Go work for your uncle at Hillestads." I gulped and swallowed and said "What?" "Yes," he replied, "You will be able to work behind the counter and speak to people." Then he shooed me out and called in the next candidate. I was shell shocked and found a bench to sit on. I could not imagine working in a shop, or an office, or anywhere in town. I had tried all those options in my teens and they were awful. The customers who would haul sweaty coins and paper money from unmentionable crevices in their bodies to pay for odds and ends at Hillestads. We would take the money and drop it as quickly as we could into the money tray ... and then wash our hands as soon as we could. I then worked for a man in a menswear shop and had to fend off dirty old men wanting to feel my developing curves. All the while saying that I was overreacting and it was just a little fun. Yup, I walked off that job quick smart. There was a man who was supposedly an artist who asked me to pose for him. In the nude at age 13. Again I made a quick exit. I was barely 17 when I finished my matric exams and really, really needed some good advice on what to do as a job. Sadly I never did find the perfect job. And here I am 54 years later still whining about it. I have seriously considered using Chat GPT as a psychological tool to analyse myself and 'fix' what is fixable. But looking back at life, it wasn't all bad. I can whip out stories from my life to entertain children and grandmas. I can research and write and at the end of the day, I am a well rounded person with a few quirks. But then who isn't? I am going to buy myself something nice for my birthday, make something decadent to eat and do whatever the heck I feel like doing. As long as it doesn't include camping or chasing monkeys I should be fine.