The title for this book was born at one of these gatherings in November of 2011. Out at a new swanky JustinHemmes restau- rant in the Sydney CBD, we were already the loudest table in the place, with palpable enthusiasm in the air about my newfound freedom.
I was about to embark on an exciting adventure and everyone was along for the ride. After a long, unhappy separation, I was finally single. My ex-husband had finally moved out, custody ar- rangements were sorted, and I was free. Free from years of the misery and sadness of trying to keep my marriage alive and all the sobbing confessions my friends had seen me through… all of it was behind us. I had made it out alive and it was a time for celebration.
The conversation got straight to the point.
“Oh my god, all the sex you’ll be able to have!”
“Get back in the game, back on the bike!”
“Time to blast out the cobwebs!”
I was encouraged by the collective to embark on a sexual re- naissance. To cast off the shackles of my loveless, sexless mar- riage and go forth and multiply – or, well, to engage in the act of multiplying. Basically, to just go out and shag myself stupid.
They already had a man for the job, too (journalist, handsome, single, and quite a bit younger than me), as the ‘first cab off the rank’. He was known to all of us, and had (we all suspected) been waiting for the opportunity.
“He’ll be a great drought-buster,” Margot chortled.
I didn’t want to seem too excited, but who was I kidding? The thought of a sexual encounter fuelled by lust, desire, and long- ing rather than obligation, resentment, and dusty familiarity was thrilling and terrifying at the same time. I feltlike a kid the night before Christmas. Barely unable to resist tearing down the stairs and ripping the wrapping off the presents under the tree, but panic- stricken that the very thing I’d been hoping for might not be there. The energy and sheer momentum of being released from my unhappy marriage had given me a renewed lustfor life. And I in-
tended to embrace that “lust” in every sense of the word.
At one point, my pal Sue leaned over to whisper loudly in my ear, “It’s the start of your gap year, honey… do us proud!”
It was during this gap year (which extended to four) that I en- countered a few other gaps.
This period of my life presented me with the cold hard reality of the ‘gaps’ in my own development, particularly in terms of my financial education and the fish slap in the face consequences of my learned (fiscal) helplessness.
I reflected on the gap (which eventually became an unbridge- able chasm) that had grown between me and my husband, and ultimately led to my decision to walk away from my fifteen-year marriage with a young child, no money, an ailing acting career, and what were at best sketchy mid-life career prospects.
I also spent considerable time looking back and taking stock of my life, from my childhood, teens, and twentieson all the way into my fifties. It occurred to me that, as much as I’d spent ‘do- ing’ in life – doing assignments, doing auditions, doing shows, doing my nails, doing drugs – I’d also spent a lot of time ‘being’… being single, being unemployed, being scared, being broke, being lonely. I’d had too many times when I’d felt like nothing good (or of any consequence) was going on.
And you’ll find out that the very last ‘gap’ in this tale come in the form of a relationship I found myself in with a man 20 years my junior. Cue: ‘Age Gap, much?’
So, this book is all about the gaps…
…what I’ve learned from them, and who I’ve become as a result. Okay. Ready?
Past Its Use By Date
The beginning of the end…
I have a habit of ignoring warning signs. There have been mornings I’ve gone to the fridge to get milk for my tea, only to find that the milk is out of date. For many people, even the faintest hint of sour means turfing the lot immediately. They’ll bin it without a second thought.
Not me. Maybe it’s my optimistic nature, but I like to give situations the benefit of the doubt, and so I’m conflicted. The dilemma freezes me in mid-air, fridge door open, cold air spilling onto my bare feet.
I need my morning cuppa. My heart doesn’t start beating until I’ve had it. It’s been my daily ritual since I was a little girl, when I would wake pre-dawn and hear my grandma already busy in the kitchen preparing meals for the day. She would offer me hot Milo, but I wanted what she was having, so she would make me strong milky tea with one sugar and we would sit at the yellow laminated Formica table and talk about the ducks.
While many country people keep chickens for eggs and the odd Sunday roast, my Grandma kept ducks. Although Grandma Eileen was quintessential in many ways – blue rinsed hair, and spent most of her time cooking, cleaning, sewing, and tending her garden and her beloved ducks – she also had a fearless side, once beheading a six-foot Mulga snake (also known as the King Brown snake and highly venomous) in the backyard with a shovel, then proudly draping the headless carcass over the hills hoist, so the men could see it when they got home. She also taught me how to pluck feathers from the very ducks she fed and loved, in order to create the ultimate roast duck dinner. These days, my wonderful grandma is long gone (and so are the ducks), but the morning ritual lives on.
A lack of tea can (and has been known to) unhinge the start of a perfectly lovely day. It’s all but unthinkable to go without it.
I check the date again (it hasn’t changed). I rummage through the fridge, peering behind the forgotten jars of anchovies and the massive family-size block of cheddar cheese that now resembles a yellow house brick due to its not being resealed after opening. There is no other milk. This one is two days out of date... should I take the chance? Clearly, it was okay yesterday, because I either didn’t notice or didn’t care, but two days?
I open the bottle and cautiously lower my nose. The smell doesn’t knock me out with that ‘Congratulations! you’ve just made yogurt’ smell. This is a good sign. My tea sits forlornly on the bench, the English Breakfast tea bag slowly releasing the irresistible flavour that will help me face the day.
‘Bugger it!’ I think, and I pour.
It’s risky business, I know, but there is tea at stake here!
What happens next is one of two things. The milk will either curdle immediately, like someone has dropped a tablespoon of cottage cheese into my tea, the result of which is a quick realisation that my olfactory radar is way off, and I’ll tip the whole of it down the sink.
Or, I’ll sip my morning cuppa with a tentative internal holding of the nose: my attempt to shut my taste buds off to the undeniable fact that I’m willingly imbibing something that would not pass a food safety audit.
Either way, not an ideal outcome.
I’d like to say I’ve done this only once, that I learned my lesson and now ditch anything past its use-by date. But I’d be lying. I’ve done it countless times over the years.
My marriage was like that milk. Past its use-by date. Yet, with it, too, I had stubbornly and dutifully persisted, attached to the hope that it would somehow get better and become the marriage, the union, the partnership I willed it to be. Attached to the ritual of it maybe… the morning kiss, living together, the dream. The fairy tale. My ex-husband – if you asked him would be highly likely to give you a different version of events. I am neither blameless nor unsullied in the demise of my marriage. Things just went wrong, or were wrong. Hell, maybe we were mismatched from the start.