Spin Cycle

by Ilsa Evans

  I wipe most of the toothpaste smears off the mirror so that I can see my reflection more clearly. This is an automatic compulsion which I follow every morning, even though nothing ever really changes – average height, average weight, average looks. That’s me, the infamous Ms Average. I would dearly love one, just one outstanding feature – or the money to buy it. It doesn’t necessarily have to be facial, it could be great legs, drop-dead breasts, or even a butt which begs to be permanently encased in skin-tight denim. Instead of any of those, the only outstanding feature I am sporting this morning is the obvious foundation of a large and painful pimple on the left side of my chin. Maybe my period is due. I make a mental note to ask my sister – we’re usually in sync.

  I turn away from the mirror and my average reflection, and stare rather morosely at the wall for a few moments. Despite the fact that I have found a source for my damn therapist, I still feel basically down. Smack dab in the proverbial dumps. The truth is that I would be more than happy to put up with my average features for eternity if I could just do something about my life. Like getting a life, full-stop. If this is it, I don’t really see the point. This week will be the same as last week, which will be the same as next week – ad infinitum. Monday is therapy and housework, Tuesday till Friday is the same dull, uneventful job followed by an evening of monotony, and the weekends are full of activities for the kids and Weight-Watchers for me. Yip, yip, hoorah.

  Maybe what I need is to pick my life up and give it a really good shake. But that probably requires a certain amount of intestinal fortitude and it’s rather hard to muster intestinal fortitude when you are already down. And I don’t just need to be more positive – I’m already positive, positive that I’m sick of this. I sigh heavily, shrug and proceed to strip off, turn on the shower and step underneath the soothing spray. I feel a bit better almost immediately so I close my eyes and try to imagine that the cascading water is washing away my miserable mood. Going, going … still going – almost gone. That’s probably the best I can hope for. I open my eyes, stretch luxuriously and reach for the soap. Which is when I remember showering rule number four – always ensure that the toiletries are in place before starting the shower ritual. Sure enough, the soap is missing, which means I must look down.

  First I try reaching for it with my toes (I am blessed with prehensile toes which saves quite a lot of bending down) on the left side, then I try prodding the right side, and next I make the huge mistake of trying a clean sweep by using both feet. I find the soap, land on my backside with an almighty crash and get a bird’s-eye view of my excess weight, stretch marks, love handles and even the sole of my right foot. In an effort to distract myself from the pain, I wonder bitterly whether either of my ex-husbands has love handles … and who might be using them.

  Never having been the type who learns from their mistakes, I have been married twice and have three children. The first marriage took place when I was twenty-one and was the result of an error of judgement. In fact we called Samantha ‘Oops’ for the first couple of years, much to the disgust of my mother, who is not known for her sense of humour. However, despite the marriage having been somewhat forced, it started off quite well and was thoroughly enjoyed by those most concerned. Alex and I doted on the baby and each other, and it wasn’t until he finished his engineering degree and entered the world of work that things started to go wrong. Looking back, I think I was still stuck in a time-warp of revolutionary university dropouts and, in that circle of like-minded friends, spent every free minute attempting to solve the ills of the world from a comfy armchair.

  Slowly but surely, Alex and I drifted apart and not even the demise of the armchair and the birth of Benjamin managed to bridge the distance. I haven’t seen Alex for years although the kids used to see him regularly before he left for Saudi Arabia five years ago. Since then he has paid for them to fly out and visit him twice. He never remarried although my little spies used to report a regular stream of ‘aunts’ … and no love handles to speak of.

  My second husband is a whole different case. And I use the word ‘case’ advisedly. For starters, Keith is shortish and muscular where Alex is (or was) tallish and slim. But it took me three years to work out that love did not conquer all, that Keith’s moodiness was habitual, his drinking phenomenal, and that domestic abuse is not just physical. In retrospect I can recognise that there were disturbing signs right from the beginning but, at the time, I simply could not see past what I perceived as his charming protectiveness – and my own loneliness. If love is blind, then marriage is more than enough to remove the cataracts.

  Eventually I had no choice but to face the fact that I had made yet another marital mistake (this time a real doozey), but it is one thing to admit that you’ve made an error, and quite another to be able to extricate yourself from that error relatively unscathed. That took quite some time, effort and willpower. In the meantime, CJ (formally known as Christine Jain, after Keith’s mother) duly arrived with much fanfare, Samantha duly departed with much less fanfare (on a volunteer student exchange to Austria – paid for by her concerned father) and Benjamin gradually became the distant relative he remains today. By the time Samantha returned, I had finally extracted myself from the marriage, removing Ben and, with a great deal of difficulty, an infant CJ to the weatherboard haven in leafy suburban Ferntree Gully that we reside in today.

  Keith still seems to try and make my life difficult in every way that he can. Although, to his credit, he gave up the drinking after we separated, he is still surly, temperamental and domineering – so maybe that’s just him. Or maybe it’s because he can’t handle not being number one. This is the man, after all, who used to make a habit of counting the items of clean washing I had just hung on the line to ensure that I hadn’t spent more time washing Ben’s clothing than I had his own. But, whatever the reason, the access visits with CJ are a constant nightmare: late pick-ups, later drop-offs, casual verbal abuse, no maintenance and a steady stream of complaints about his daughter’s upbringing.

  And CJ thinks the world of him.

  Hell’s bells, now I’ve broken rule number three as well. I think I’d better get out of the shower before I depress myself even further – and before my bones start to knit in the retarded-lotus position. As I emerge, I can hear a herd of wild elephants thundering down the passage towards the bathroom so I take cover behind the only towel … damp, of course.

  All of the elephants except one manage to stop before hitting the bathroom door. God, I worry about my son. I lean back against the wall and listen to his whimpers of pain mingle melodiously with the efforts of his sisters to out-shout each other. As usual, Samantha wins.

  ‘Mum, what was that enormous crash, are you okay?’ (That was at least two minutes ago, and wasn’t all that enormous, thank you; just daintily awkward.)

  ‘Mummy, Ben tore up my present!’

  ‘You just tripped me!’

  ‘I most certainly did not, it’s your coordination.’

  ‘Mummy, are you going to hit Ben for tearing up my present?’

  ‘Mum, answer me! Are you all right?’

  ‘Mummy, can I hab this bit of paper with S-E-X wrote on it?’

  ‘Mum, Sam tripped me AND spilt milk all over my school jumper!’

  ‘If you aren’t even going to have the common courtesy of answering, I’m leaving.’

  ‘Mummy, what does S-E-X spell?’

  Maybe that hypnotism idea had some merit after all.

  MONDAY

  11.45 am

  Well, I think that my therapist is either a professional virgin or has some severe hang-ups of her own regarding sex (perhaps she needs therapy?). Despite all the hard work that I put into discovering the source, she steadfastly refused to (a) take me seriously, (b) discuss the subject at all, and (c) even continue our session while I discussed it. She said I was skirting my issues. Well, even if I was, they are my issues to skirt, aren’t they? Besides, talking about my issues doesn’t really seem to have been doin
g me much good lately and I like talking about sex, it’s the closest I get to it nowadays, and I’m the one who is paying after all. So that’s it – enough’s enough. She can just keep her superior attitude, fancy waiting room and exorbitant fees. I don’t need her. I hope.

  I am musing over the morning’s events as I sit in one of those smorgasbord type restaurants in nearby Ringwood, waiting for the arrival of my mother and two sisters. I even have my own personal empty plate in front of me as I have just ordered an ‘all you can eat’, which, strangely enough, is actually cheaper than a regular menu selection. I have never been to this type of restaurant before as my two younger children tend to shun places where they imagine manners are a prerequisite and playgrounds and/or Nintendo playstations are nonexistent.

  Their concern regarding manners certainly appears to be ill founded, judging by the heavyweight gentleman to my left who is operating under the edict that time is of the essence. Whilst shovelling food at an alarming rate, he is casting concerned glances at the bain-marie where only eighteen potato wedges remain. My therapist forgotten, I watch fascinated as he rises, serviette fluttering from his waistband, and moves quickly … but alas, too late – he was not the only one aware of the limited availability and the wedges have been triumphantly transferred onto the plate of an elderly woman whose skilful use of her walking stick was enough to guarantee success.

  Rubbing his shin, the gentleman comes to an abrupt halt next to the empty container, crestfallen, dejected, his shoulders slump … but look, salvation is nigh! The waitress nimbly manoeuvres herself between the grazing clients and deposits a fresh batch of potato wedges right before his very eyes! Jubilantly he helps himself to a large serving and gloatingly proceeds past the bitter gaze of his former combatant towards the sour cream. She has stopped in her tracks and now turns and dumps her five-minute old wedges into the cranberry sauce before partaking of the new, fresh offering.

  He returns to his seat, smirking with anticipation as he forks a large helping, smothers it with sour cream, raises it to his mouth, and –

  ‘Christ, that’s hot. And what the hell are you staring at?’

  As for playgrounds, well, the large group of preschoolers to my right certainly seem to be letting their imagination make up for any lack of actual play equipment. Children don’t really need structured activities to fire their creative juices; imagination and dextrous fingers can do amazing things with spaghetti, and cheese, and –

  ‘Don’t play with your food!’ Enter my mother. She adroitly turns her back on the concentrated glare of the creative children and their surprised parents and, sliding into the chair opposite mine, continues in a whisper audible even to the chef: ‘I don’t know what the matter is with mothers these days. There’s no such thing as bad children, you know, only bad parents. Absolutely hellbent on raising an entire generation of recalcitrant brats. Well, when you children were young I insisted on manners at all times and, let me tell you, you certainly knew what you had coming if you let me down.’

  The inferior mothers are now muttering to each other crossly. I suspect that they are discussing my mother as I catch certain familiar phrases such as ‘old cow’ and ‘who the hell does she think she is?’ I have often wondered the same thing but don’t dare mention it as I know what I have coming if I let her down. I watch as she adjusts her chair first one way and then the other and find myself almost admiring her self-possession and sheer nerve. Physically she is not overpowering at all – just a shade over five foot and weighing the equivalent of two of my thighs – yet there she sits, completely comfortable with her nasty temperament, blue hair and thickly crocheted twin-set ensemble (my mother turns her nose up at fashion trends, and it shows).

  Unbelievable.

  I am not here by choice but at parental command. In fact, after I received the phone call last night requesting me to ‘do lunch’ today (my mother reads a lot of Jackie Collins books), I spent a considerable amount of time trying to think up a reasonable excuse to get out of it. Children are never sick when it’s necessary.

  Anyway, I’m here now so I might as well make the best of it. I take the cue from my mother and attempt to loftily ignore the rude comments with an air of disdain.

  ‘Do wipe that peculiar look off your face, dear, before it attracts attention, and shut your mouth at once. Oh, thank you so much (this to the waitress), but are you sure this bread is fresh? Mine has little green flecks, and look! So has my daughter’s. No, no, please don’t apologise, it’s probably not your fault and I heartily dislike making a fuss so if you could just bring us some fresh slices? Anytime soon would be good, thank you so much.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, that was herb bread, it’s supposed to have green flecks.’ Although the waitress’s face had some interesting green flecks when she left that I’m fairly certain weren’t supposed to be there.

  ‘Darling, please don’t interrupt. Incredibly rude, I’m sure I don’t know where you get some of your manners. Now as I was saying … what exactly was I saying before you interrupted? Oh, I really hate it when that happens, it is so easy to lose one’s train of thought when one is constantly interrupted …’

  At this point I tune out, congratulating myself on lasting longer than usual. The only problem is that I really wanted to tell her my news. I actually fired my uptight therapist! I was sitting in her office, after she had tersely scorned my theory on sex, obediently concentrating on why I felt miserable, when it hit me! Maybe I felt miserable because I was concentrating on feeling miserable and that was making me miserable! And if there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s paying someone else to make me feel miserable; I have enough friends and family around who are more than willing to do it for free.

  Which brings me neatly back to my mother, and it’s probably just as well that I don’t tell her my big news as I just remembered that I never told her that I was seeing a therapist to begin with. My mother’s stated opinion (much-stated opinion) is that only Americans and the insane see therapists. So I concentrate on tuning out, which is actually quite easy with my mother. Like most five-year-olds, she doesn’t really require a verbal response. Just an occasional nod keeps her running like a well-oiled machine.

  ‘Are you paying attention?’

  I come out of my reverie to see my mother gazing at me suspiciously so I nod frenetically.

  ‘Well, come on then and please don’t dawdle.’

  ‘What about Diane? And Elizabeth?’ But I am talking to her back as she has already stalked off in the direction of the servery. Reluctantly I pull myself out of my seat, grab my plate and follow her to the salad bar where she has already begun to carefully select lettuce leaves. I’m beginning to suspect that both my sisters have thrown me to the lions and aren’t coming. I decide that I’ll ignore my Weight-Watchers’ booklet for today. I shall definitely need something a little bit more substantial as I’m always extremely hungry when I’m uncomfortable, or stressed, or under pressure, or … well, isn’t eating one of life’s small pleasures? You have to take them where you find them, that’s for sure. So I decide to ignore the salad bar and instead have a lovely time finding a tray and extra crockery to use for a bowl of fragrant pumpkin soup, a selection of assorted fried foods, and I even manage to beat the portly gentleman to the remaining potato wedges which are just begging for lashings of sour cream. I retire in triumph to our table and begin to enjoy the repast (I won’t be allowed to eat for the rest of the week so I’d better enjoy it), leaving my mother complaining audibly to a harassed-looking waiter about some wedges in the cranberry sauce.

  ‘… not that I have any intention of partaking of cranberry sauce at this time of the year, but the sight of that … that unpalatable slop – I can really think of no more appropriate word – has affected my appetite and I think that you should be made aware that the whole ambience of the establishment is negated by this type of negligence and I consider it my duty as a patron … ’

  I tune out again and return to my original train of thought.
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  Despite the fact that my mother chooses to ignore the fact that I have been married twice and never mentions this to her friends (yes, amazingly she does have some), she herself has been married three times and yet is also single. Then again, all of her husbands have died (perhaps understandably) so she is therefore absolved of anything as demeaning as a divorce. Her first marriage lasted only six months and was terminated during the closing days of World War II. His name was Thomas something and all I know was that he was considerably older than her. The second marriage followed with rather unseemly swiftness and appears to have been more romantic. She was still only in her early twenties and Richard barely a year older. Unfortunately the illusion of young love was shattered somewhat when it was revealed that the new husband volunteered for service in the Korean War as soon as it was possible.

  And he never came back.

  I only found out about these first two marriages by chance when once, as a teenager, I was searching through the filing cabinet for my birth certificate (I had a strong suspicion at the time that I was adopted) and found the relevant papers neatly bound in separate folders and filed under ‘D’ (for ‘departed’). My two sisters and I are the result of her third marriage and probably owe our existence to the fact that there were no wars during the intervening years. Although I do have memories of some rather wistful looks worn by my father as he read about the Vietnam War, but by then it was too late, and he was too old.

  When I came home from hospital after having Benjamin, my mother hammered another nail in the coffin of my marriage by deciding to come down to Melbourne and look after me in my hour of need. She left my father with casseroles in the freezer, starched overalls and strict instructions on how the farm was to be run in her absence.