Nurturing female friendships is easier when you get on a plane
How do you nurture middle-aged female friendships amid the demands of modern-day life? My friends and I have found quality time together is easier when you get on a plane and leave the state. I seriously wondered if I would ever make it out the front door – the closer I got, the more responsibility nipped at my ankle. If Armageddon were imminent, I'd probably do one more load of laundry before annihilation; enter oblivion with a clean house and conscience.
Letting go is often harder for women, entangled as we are by the role (self-imposed or otherwise) of domestic gatekeeper. I'm not talking about an uneven spread of household chores between partners, but the mental load we're often carrying along with the washing. The planning, forecasting, navigating that goes unaccounted for. It's hard to weigh anchor and sail into the sunset, leaving all responsibility on shore.
I'd planned to hop on the plane and inhale a G&T as I jetted off to a carefree wonderland. But deadlines are like lolly-deprived kids lingering behind you in a supermarket; persistent, annoying and loud. Working poolside however, is a privilege. Besides, our weekend away wasn't about wild abandonment. Nor was it about letting go. It was about holding on to parts of our mind that had taken early retirement from the maladies of modern-day life.
I'd lost my humour, been reactive and snarly with those in close proximity. I didn't want to hear any more questions because I'd run out of answers. On holiday though, I reclaimed a sense of curiosity. I didn't want to extend the hours; I just wanted to sit with time, uncomplicated by demands. I listened to my friends. Dr Kath reflected upon how often vulnerable patients still demonstrated remarkable resilience. We thought about how great it was that Kez's sister, who has a significant disability, was off on her first overseas holiday with her housemates and carers.
Instead of putting ourselves "out there" as we might have 20 years ago, we were getting our groove on with pelvic tilts to take the pressure off our lower backs. We walked along the beach by moonlight. Kez wowed us with fancy words like "fecund" and "verdant". We found constellations, watched a shooting star and realised we'd become one another's satellites back home, orbiting around each other. I'd missed them.
On our last day, we drove up the coast sharing stories from childhood holidays. I remember being dumped by a wave for the first time, heading to the surface only to hit my head on the sand. Kez recounts being picked from the crowd at Sea World to kiss a dolphin. We passed about five roadside memorials; one held a picture of a woman our own age, smiling broadly at the camera. I wondered what her story had been.
When we land back in wintry Melbourne, the holiday poetics will fade. We'll go our separate ways, pick up from where we left off. But I'm going to try and look skywards more often and remember that time travels differently, depending on who you spend it with.