Julie Greenan
The context: Beach off the coast of north-east England, where I swim in the sea regularly. A jolly little group: mostly older women, and some particular men. You’ll have seen the torrent of images online, on greetings cards, framed prints, alongside the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ decorated plaques. I think it was the artist Beryl Cook who first captured so humorously and accurately the lives of older, usually very rounded, ladies, in all their glory. And now, of course, it’s ‘a thing’.
Don’t worry - this isn’t one of those ‘oh yes, I do just as I like now, I’m a crazee, crazee old lady, I’m so eccentric and I don’t care a bit, I wear purple and eat butter..’ Not sure how that last bit crept in..)
I’m 70. Single. No children - obviously. Never happened.
So there we are, rollicking in the post-swim high, cracking jokes, sharing our common experiences that need no explanation.
And the elation of it all carries me away. I’m seized with a sense of freedom and energy, a loosening of limbs that wants to take me into flight. Almost a wild dance, my arms flailing, my body whirling. Spontaneous, spirit-led, full of joy.
There were some words with it, but I don’t remember what they were.
The others can’t help but watch me. It’s over in moments. Fast, and fleeting. But it’s enough, because they laugh and they’re amazed, but almost instantly then they’re - so kindly of course - calling me immature.
Did they say that, use that word? Maybe. Maybe not.
So what was it that I heard? You’re not an adult, not a grown-up like the rest of us. Not really. And why? Well, you haven’t had children. You’re not a mother, let alone a grandmother. And even if we didn’t know that for sure, we’d guess, because you’re ‘immature’!
Look at you, dancing like a child!
Is this just MY interpretation? ‘Internal attribution’, as a therapist might call it? Or is it what the world has conditioned us to believe, to take for granted? And ‘immature’ is of course ‘less than…’
The fact is, it’s there, in the air, whoever’s head it’s in, and it stings. It hits. It bursts the party balloon. So immediately.
I’m immature because I’m not really a grown-up because I’m not a mother. And that’s the universal truth. I betray myself without even realising, because it’s built into my very being.
Oh Julie, you do overthink, don’t you? It’s all in your head. No one actually thinks that. Don’t take things so much to heart. They’re all envious of you - your freedom, your independence. Nothing to tie you down. No one to have to account to. Come home when you like, go out when you like. Travel. No picking up of the grandkids from school and ferrying them about here, there and everywhere. No dealing with outlandish food preferences. No having to find the money for gifts and treats and outings in the summer holidays.
‘I wish I had your life’.
The free child, uninhibited.
Well - is that right? What do YOU think?
