Peggy Lee follows me through the house as I make our beds. I pick up his clothes off the floor. I load the dishwasher, tidy the bathroom, and wipe down the toilet seat. Then its coffee on the back verandah.
I’m going to be fifty next month! We’re Empty Nesters, and I’m being sidelined into irrelevance – now also a golf club widow. He left an hour ago and will likely reappear in time for a midafternoon nap! Peggy’s earworm: ‘Is that all there is….’ rewinds.
I start a shopping list but get distracted as my phone brrrings. It’s an anonymous alert from a singles social network! ‘How on earth can this bloody technology read my mind? My God, it’s scary. This is AI, working overtime.’ Nonetheless, I open the Instagram alert.
An invitation to an afternoon soiree, meet up with other singles, explore shared interests, opportunities. I’m surprised that the invitation resonates. I return to the shopping list, but Peggy Lee and Instagram keep inserting themselves.
I bought a new outfit last month. I wore it to the Golf Club Awards night. He didn’t notice. My suggested visit to my mum’s went nowhere, and he forgot our Anniversary. I reopened Instagram. ‘What the heck, might be fun’, and I check the diary – it’s clear on the weekend after next. Anyway, he’ll be playing golf!
About twenty people are in the room. Some tentative introductions, a G&T bought to steady my nerves, and I insinuate myself into a group of four. Small talk, and someone chuckles and points to the series of tables, spaced widely and each with two chairs. They fill a large part of the room.
Mary introduces herself as the MC for this afternoon’s gathering. She talks about the opportunities to meet others in a series of ten-minute Q&As. She suggests a couple of ice-breaker questions.
Some nervous throat clearing, foot shuffling and then we each take a seat at a table. There is a little further shuffling to achieve gendered pairing across each of the tables.
Ken is a Real Estate agent, divorced, adult children and a golfer! Nine minutes stretch out towards eternity.
The bell rings, and Roger arrives. His handshake – akin to squeezing a barbeque sausage! He talks about his restaurant, the haute cuisine, the exclusive clientele, the wine menu, himself. At the eight-minute mark, he asks if I have any interests!
Why am I doing this? Peggy interjects with the need ‘… to keep dancing.’ Ok, ok. Claude is across the table. His partner died five years ago, he works as a Park Ranger, loves gardening, bushwalking, wildflowers and camping. We talk animatedly about gardening. His beard’s unkempt, but he’s wearing neat, casual clobber. We continue to talk through the coffee break.
The afternoon concludes, and as I walk towards the door, Claude is there. Smiling, he hands me a note: his mobile number, and a pamphlet about an upcoming series of Open Gardens.
Mmm, I think I could find my old dancing shoes!