My friend, Chelsea, is married to a man 10 years younger than her. She is 44. To me, they are just about the happiest couple I know. The age difference never really comes up. I have to say honestly, that it is never apparent. Yet Chelsea recently admitted she feels it -  the pressure in her mid-forties to look young enough to hold onto a man ten years her junior.

Chelsea also admits that the pressure doesn’t come from him, not one bit. He is constantly telling her how beautiful he is, that he has never been happier. She hasn’t even caught him looking at another woman. Not once. The pressure comes solely from herself. 

Energy, youthfulness, vivacity and yes, weight, all become issues in your forties. As menopause looms ever closer your body changes and one of the changes I, and many of my friends have noticed is how much more difficult it is to maintain your weight.

One of the reasons for this is that in the perimenopause stage, PMS symptoms can worsen and the carb and sugar cravings can hit you like a ton of bricks. Chelsea was suffering from this quite badly a few months ago and did put on a few pounds. But at 5 foot 10 and 55KG - no one noticed. Except for her.

I haven’t seen Chelsea for over a month. This morning I found out why. She has been hiding away from the world. She has developed an eating disorder. She has been binging on cakes, chocolate and hot chips then vomiting them up. She made herself so dehydrated she collapsed at work.

Her husband thought she might have collapsed because she was pregnant. He is excited and attentive. Chelsea doesn’t have the heart to tell him what’s really going on.

‘I don’t know why I’m doing it,’ she says. ‘I am so angry with myself.’

There is that moment in your forties when you realise you actually are getting older. The realisation isn’t just to do with physical appearance, there are more aches and pains than there used to be, and that little list you keep in your head of things you are going to do one day - like traveling through Europe, learning how to use Photoshop, or writing that much anticipated novel - screams more urgently at you every time you have a quiet moment.

Chelsea admits that when the bingeing was at its worst she was aiming to be a size zero. ‘I actually convinced myself that I would never be alone if I was a size zero. I lost all sense of perspective.’

Size zero is an unattainable size for most people. Just to get there for an average sized person involves a state of semi-starvation and excessive amounts of exercise. To stay there is almost impossible. The side effects can be incredibly damaging - ranging from liver failure to osteoporosis to memory loss.

Yet a recent article indicated that many women in their 40s hate their body. According to the survey conducted in the article more than 58% of women in their 40s had disordered eating patterns. It was also found that the average woman over 40 wanted to weigh less than she did at 20.

A specialist was quoted as saying:

“What is worrying is that women appear to be turning to inappropriate means of taking control of their weight and shape.”

Chelsea is seeking help. She doesn’t want her problem with eating to get any worse. She wants to get to a stage where she doesn’t panic if she puts on a few pounds. She doesn’t want to have any more days where all she eats is half an apple and a stick of celery. She doesn’t want to cancel lunch dates. She doesn’t want to feel nauseous with hunger. She wants, truly wants, to feel comfortable once more in her own skin.

One of the prompts from Cricket’s Slice Of Life this week is  a moment of failure.

Here’s my tale of woe - 

It was the stilettoes that did it. Led to my moment of failure. Bubblegum pink tools of the devil.

During my Senior Year of High School the Design class decided to put on a fashion show to raise money for charity. My friend Jules asked me if I would model one of her outfits. I was flattered to be asked, I mean, what 17-year old girl doesn’t dream of a girlie modeling moment? So I agreed.

But a few days before the show I began to get cold feet. Actually, my feet were more numb than cold because my circulation had gone haywire from walking in those damn stilettoes. They pinched at the toes, they rubbed the ankles raw and walking in them was as easy as balancing on a tightrope after consuming half a bottle of vodka.

Yes, it is true, I have never been able to walk in heels.

This is me in stilettoes:

shuffle shuffle stagger

shuffle shuffle teeter

shuffle shuffle fall over (usually with my skirt halfway up my back, thank God

                                           I always wear sensibe underwear)

Some of the people I admire most in this world can work it in stilettoes. My friend, Mel is one. She sashays in those 6 inch heels like she is walking on air. My Mum is another. She can dance the foxtrot in them. I have heard that Sarah Jessica Parker can run a couple of kms through the streets of Manhattan in her Manolo Blahniks. Modern marvels all.

But me, well, that’s a different story. I can stand in them. Truth be told I look quite good in them. As a gay friend of mine once said to me : ‘They do make your calves look rather shapely.’ Until he saw me attempt to move forward in them. ‘But for Pete’s sake, don’t walk in them.’

Jules made a very trendy, 1980s style dress a´la Vivienne Westwood. It was blue and pink with a yellow tartan sash, a white bodice and shoulder pads. It looked good, trouble was Jules had left finishing the dress until the last minute and stitched me into it. It was extremely fitted. I looked like an extra in a Spandau Ballet video. Walking was difficult in the dress even without the stilettoes.

Somehow -  I think I was transported there by some unseen force, maybe the spirit of fashion - I made it on to the catwalk. The music started blaring - Human League, I think - and someone pushed me forward. Told me to strut my stuff. I tried, I really did. I imagined how Elle Macpherson would do it or Linda Evangelista. I even had the pose down pat where you pause at the end of the catwalk with your hand on your hip and pout at the audience. But it wasn’t meant to be.

Ever felt like you were going to fall before you actually did? Ever known that no matter what you do your ass is going to hit the ground? You brace yourself for the point of impact, for the deafening ring of humiliation in your ears, hoping for a miracle. But, alas, miracles and modeling just don’t mix.

I managed to walk ten steps. The ten wobbliest, yet proudest steps of my life. For ten steps I owned that catwalk. I was working it, baby.

And then it all went horribly wrong. I lost my balance. Stepping forward into nothing, knees buckling, ankles bending, falling, falling, falling, flat on my face.

There was a gasp, a collective quiver. I swore, I moaned, I wished I could sink into the floor. My time as a model was over before it had begun. My moment of failure was stark. And then a friend in the audience began to laugh, winked at me, and I began to giggle.  Jumping to my feet, I  held the offending stilettoes aloft and finished my strut down the catwalk, complete with pouty pose. There was a resounding cheer, a round of applause and the show went on as normal.

I’ll never forget my initial humiliation and the sense of failure I felt as I was falling. But I’ll also never forget how a wink from a friend restored my sense of humour and allowed me to press forward. I guess what it means is that sometimes even when you think you are failing, you are actually succeeding - at making the best of a situation. And that is just as important as being able to walk a straight line in stiletto shoes.

I have started a new blog called Search Engine Stories where I am posting prompts every Saturday.

See the related post here.

I would love to see you there.

Whenever I am feeling a little gloomy
when nothing is going right
I just watch this here video on You Tube
And it keeps me laughing all through the night….

Oh, Tom, you might have been awarded Scientology’s Medal of Valour and be next in line to L. Ron Hubbard’s throne, but you’ll always be King of the Nitwits to me.
Thanks for the pick me up time and time again.
All these years later, seeing you on that yellow couch is better than any antidepressant.
Thanks, Tom. I mean it.
Peace out.

I was at a birthday lunch for a friend of mine yesterday and it was a great day. It was one of those winter days where the sky is a crisp blue and completely cloudless; where the blue is so perfect, so undisturbed that the sun kind of melts into it.

Something happened at the party yesterday that upset a few of the partygoers. I thought I’d share it with you to get your opinions on what you think of people who air their dirty linen in public.

We were all just chatting, having a laugh, and the conversation turned to cooking. How to keep variety in the weekly menu, who does most of the cooking in the family, and so on. It was great to see how many men actually cooked on a regular basis and how many teenage children did. I thought that was brilliant.

Then Graham chipped in about his wife Belinda : ‘She is the worst cook I’ve ever met. Thank God she’s so hot in the bedroom.’ Everyone laughed until Graham added : ‘Not.’

‘What are you saying?’ Belinda countered. ‘That not only am I a terrible cook, I’m crap in bed too.’

‘Well, we haven’t had sex for more than two years,’ Graham shouted, a little tidbit I wished he hadn’t shared with the party at large.

Graham cheated on Belinda. Juniors from his office. No one knows for sure how many there were or how long it went on for. But Belinda knows. She filed for divorce three years ago but Graham begged and pleaded for her to give him a second chance. His campaign to win her back lasted for more than 6 months. I was astounded by his focus. Most men would have given up, but he persisted. When she relented he said he was the happiest man alive.

Things went well for a while but after about three months Belinda admitted she was having trouble with intimacy issues. She couldn’t stomach sex - sometimes it made her physically ill. She felt she couldn’t completely trust Graham and the thought that he might still be sleeping with other women as well as sleeping with her, repulsed her. ‘What if I catch something?’ she said.

In the end she admitted that she used sex as a weapon, a shield. If she withheld sex it meant she was protected to a certain extent from his infidelity. She could keep that little part of herself to herself, untouched. She felt Graham didn’t deserve all of her anymore, that he had lost the right.

Once lost, trust is such a difficult thing to regain. So many people I know (both male and female) who have been victims of infidelity say that it is trust they grapple with the most when trying to rebuild their relationships.

It’s easier to say : ‘Ill give you a second chance. I’ll try again. I forgive you’ than it is to quieten the little voice in your head that says :’It’s 11PM and he isn’t home yet. Is he out with her?’ ‘Who keeps sending all these explicit emails?’ ‘Why is he buying me flowers on a week night?’

Belinda has been seeing a therapist who told her that it is very common for people who have experienced infidelity to initially forgive the behaviour and then even as much as ten years later, to suddenly develop problems around issues of trust.

Belinda summed up her fears:

“Just because he’s says he isn’t being unfaithful, doesn’t actually mean he’s being faithful. He told me he wasn’t cheating when he was in the middle of all those affairs. He looked me dead in the eye and said he would never do that to me but he did do it. Talk is cheap when it comes to infidelity. I don’t know if I can truly believe anything he says ever again. And if that’s the case, how can I ever really forgive him?”

And there’s the rub - is it really possible to completely forgive someone who’s been unfaithful to you? Can you ever fully get the trust back or is there always doubt niggling at the back of your mind? And if that’s the case, let’s be honest, should you and that person be together?

Belinda and Graham fought for over an hour. Sly little digs that eventually began to deteriorate into an out and out slanging match. A slanging match that hung her (supposed) lack of sexual prowess out to dry.

A few people and I eventually got sick of it and suggested they either stop or take the argument elsewhere. Then Graham started in on us, that if we hadn’t been bending Belinda’s ears for the last two years she would be in a much more forgiving state right now. Seems like everyone was to blame but Graham himself.

As Graham, Belinda and a few other people left the garden turned an inky green. I got to thinking about the word hurt. It is a word that hangs in the air after you say it, as if part of it is corporeal, as if by saying it you release it into the physical realm.

There is a seductiveness about it, like an autumn leaf with its edges curled up that you cannot resist crunching into the ground. There is a finality about it, as if once you have experienced it, it will be the only emotion you remember experiencing. There is pain in the word, like someone slicing through your flesh. There is a certainty about it, so that saying you are unaffected by its presence sounds unconvincing.

Hurt me and I hurt you back. Isn’t that how it goes? One way or another the hurt binds us, makes us unable to think or hear or see. Sometimes it can work out that the hurt is all we know, all we are. I hope Belinda can relinquish the hurt, that she will not drop the strong parts of herself she has gathered, and move on to a better time where the night will not grow ever colder. And I hope she doesn’t have to go through the humiliation of her dirty linen being aired in public ever again.