Gone FishingThere are some interesting life spectrums that I’ve recently come to love, and others that I already knew and continue to live.

Last month, I saw the video of a 100 year old American woman from South Carolina break the 100m track record in her age category, and it cemented the notion that age is nothing. Nothing.

I am surrounded and uplifted by individuals that relentlessly kick at their labels; reinvent, reorganise, rename. I have joined many athletes in watching the gap between the winning men and the winning women close significantly as prize money equals out and young boys like my son are, finally, taught to stop saying things like “runs like a girl” as though my gender were an insult. I have heard the running mothers on the track or at stupid-o-clock races questioned as to the whereabouts of their children respond, “Have you ever asked their running dad the same question?” I love them. Shit I love them. The labels, as they fall, its beautiful.

But adulting? That label? For the most part, you can keep it. Seriously.

I feel like the adulting label comes with a widely accepted notion that I must know my place. That I should be adhering to the distance markers, monitoring my pace and constantly tapping in to my finish line goal as I go. I must suck it up, suck it in and work it out. I must do big hard things while I parent, earn a living, fly the entrepreneurial flag, train, race, see my friends, sort out the garden, clean out the fridge, walk the dogs, supply a plate of food for the school thingy, manage the face wrinkles, stock up on groceries, cook the food and look goodish whilst maintaining my Discovery Health Vitality status (WTF).

That little list, the one that dominates many of our days, excludes the life markers that indicate the importance of reinvestment, spiritual health, LOVE. I’m on top of the recycling, I grow my own herbs and chilies, I almost always remember to pick up the dog poo and I put a lot of time in to understanding my place as a privileged 30-something (yes, still, by a small margin) white woman in South Africa in 2016. I vote, too. Even when the political climate of my country makes me want to curl up in an uncovered man hole and sob. I vote.

Phew. Anyone else wanting to find a sunny spot and just stop the clock? Eat mulberries under a tree, breastfeeding the baby while the world floats by? Toss pebbles in to the stream with the kids at your side, without a deadline in sight? Stand below a waterfall, head turned toward the sky without fear, without anxiety or the voices that shout YOU SHOULD BE SOMEWHERE ELSE! NOW! YOU ARE LATE! AND YOUR CAR NEEDS A SERVICE! PLUS YOUR GREY ROOTS ARE SHOWING!

Can I hand in my adult membership, please? Down grade for a spell. I’m going fishing.









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