Life begins at 40, doesn’t it?

Press, 2 May 1981, Page 10

Life begins at 40, doesn’t it?

KATE FRASER

observes ...

The drama, the depression, the anxiety has faded. I have adjusted. It was not easy. Milestones are milestones, but 40 seemed more like a graveyard marker, than a measure of years travelled. The Big Four crept up on me. • One day I was 39 — laughing at friends who were 42; celebrating with friends who were 45; pitying friends who were 50. .The next — I discovered flab.' And wrinkles. And cellulite. My backside looked loke. orange peel, my thighs waffled, my upper arms wobbled when I waved at someone. My neck developed creases, and my jaw began to arrange itself into jowls. . I remembered perfectly everything that happened in 1962„.but not what I had done with the milk tokens. I was FORTY. No mistake, no escape. So I had a party. I am not a great party thrower — but every 10 years seems like a good enough reason. And I had had my first party at 10,

second at 20, third at 30 — and — I was almost sure this would be the last. Anyway, I was miserable enough, and misery loves company. My tenth birthday was my only childhood party because my mother preferred grownup bun fights to squabbles over jelly and ice-cream and who hadn't brought a present. However, my grandmother died the night before so said party was held in a mass of gloom and elderly relatives. Also, I had invited only'boys,, which didn't help things with Mum at all . . . and then I had a fight with one of them and ripped my “best'’ dress. Which was a loathsome thing of blue and white everglaze with a peculiar flared skirt, and big white buttons marching down the front. Why I had a party at 20

instead of 21 I forget. But I had a big "do'’ in the local golf club-house. It was also election night. As the results came in, various fights amongst various factions seemed on the point of erupting; some of the guests (actually most of the guests) got drunk — and then drove over the second green; a dog was sick on my mother's fur stole; and I sat in a bowl of tomato sauce. As I was done up like a virgin deb. in an overblown dress of white broderie anglaise the effect was less than attractive. But — it was a success as country parties go.

Thirty was a real wingdinger. I had been looking forward to 30. I imagined I would wake, instantly charming, elegant, witty, wise, chic, .. . Thirty was the magic number to rhe. What actually happened was disaster. I bought a black crepe trouser suit embellished with rows of black fringing, saved up the housekeeping — and had “an elegant little dinner party.” I even hired the girl across the road to strain the beans, whip the cream and do the dishes afterwards. Unfortunately — I was breastfeeding a fairly new baby and top of black crepe trouser suit soon became soggy, the fringing then fell off like dandruff, and finally I developed a "nervous” stomach and spent most of the time in the 100.

Not charming, elegant, witty, or wise at all. Certainly not chic or . . . So there I was at 40. Totally unprepared for both the number and a party. Actually, it seemed more like a wake. People came and went, bunches of flowers appeared, mournful faces gave way to dirty jokes, friends brought along trays of food, people wore black . . . everyone, including me, had a good time. Much like any wake I have ever been to. And of course — as the cliche says — "time heals all.” I coped with my middleaged state . . . even though J knew I would never wear a bikini again and sleeveless dresses were a thing of the past. Until today. I have just realised I shall be 41 this year!