Melbourne Cup has nothing

So seeing my own words in black and white has given me the kick in the pants that no amount of nagging or cajoling from my nearest and dearest could execute. I'm studying again... Yes, this is a good thing. I will finish that degree, I will be able to (justifiably) tell my children with some authority that university is necessary and that they will have a better quality of life if they just persevere with study for a few years longer, and, I will have a glowing, inside out feeling of self-satisfaction - in the long run. In the short-term I am already (week 3) tearing my hair out wondering what on earth has possessed me to add yet another stone to my already teetering scales!

I have taken today off work to catch up on my readings, which I am already behind in, and have to keep walking away from the fridge and back to the computer reminding myself that this 'day off' is no such thing and that yes, it is waaay too early for a glass of wine... Getting lost in the existentialism of thinking about my view of myself as opposed to the views others have of me (you have to love being a uni student) got me to pondering the different hats I wear in my day-to-day life and just how schizophrenic my personality actually seems on paper...

Firstly, as a mother I have the responsible hat. I guess it can be equated to a full brim school hat, not necessarily something that felt natural (or glamorous) to wear at first, but that now I don't leave the house without. In my role as mother I am the nurturer, the story teller and tuckerinner, the nurse, cook and cleaner and the organiser (not a strong point - my children are constantly reminding me of where we're supposed to be and how we were supposed to be there 20 minutes ago... Darling, it's all about making an entrance!). This hat is, however, my sturdiest. I'm comfortable in it and can switch back to wearing it in the blink of an eye if called upon.

The employee head wear is far less comfortable and really something I only put on out of necessity rather than desire. Kind of like football head gear - sweaty, hard to take on and off quickly and not something I would want to be seen dead in in public. There's no room for movement in it, and the guy who's arse I have my head in has total control of the direction I am heading. Say no more really.

The girlfriend adornment. This is the hat that I can wear in good times and bad - to a party or for 8 hours of shopping. One I can wear with heels and drink shots off the bar in, or wear to a cafe for a 3 hour coffee (sometimes with tissues in tow). This is a hat I can be myself in and never be judged when I wear. I love this hat. When I'm wearing this hat I can (allegedly) carry a doner kebab in one hand and my shoes in the other while I hail a cab with my leg and wait for my girlfriend to extricate herself from the guy she's told she's a lawyer who owns a condo on the river and push her into the taxi before me. This hat has seen a lot and will never tell. Ever.

Remiss so far I guess is the wife hat. It's really a combination of all of the above: mother, paid help and friend. It also must be able to withstand hurricanes, earthquakes (whether the earth shattering is good or bad) and mother-in-laws (see hurricanes). It has to stay on during great sex, drunk sex, angry sex and just plain tedious sex and remain put when juggling any number of balls. It has to look presentable at family gatherings and seem intelligent, but not too smart at husbands' work functions. The amazing abilities of the Cat in the Hat - same same. Yes, this hat does exist. Surely you've seen a rabbit pulled out of one before?

There are too many more to be discussed here: daughter, neighbour, patient, customer, passenger... The list is endless and each one requires some different part of me to stand at the front and be seen. Now, if I can just figure out which hat I need to put on to study... I suspect it might be the one with a wide enough brim to keep my head out of the fridge...

Sinatra was onto something...

'I did it my way' would be engraved on my headstone if I were not choosing to be cremated at the end of this ride. I'll take an educated guess that towing the line is not something I am likely to be remembered for. At 30-something I feel like I've packed quite a bit into this life so far: enough children that I often ask them how old they are and what grade they are in at school; too many jobs to count, onto my second 'career' and first grown-up job (one which holds me in enough self-imagined esteem that I tolerate a high-level of boredom); two husbands and too many lovers to count (yes, I'm serious); and some friendships that have come full circle and others that have run their course. For a girl from 'the wrong side of the tracks' I guess you'd say I've made good. I've apparently still got my looks, have seen a respectable amount of the world and have received enough praise from University lecturers that I have justified not finishing a degree yet (follow through is a recurring new years resolution). My children are well-adjusted as far as children of divorce go and don't want for much. We have a nice, albeit small, house and they go to private schools, play private school sports and are invited to birthday parties and sleep overs. My ex-husband and I play nicely and share parenting duties fairly well for the most part (there is a reason we are exes). His new partner, I guess she's the step-mother of my children, is nicer than I could ever have hoped for, and someone I hope stays in the picture permanently.

Although no Sylvia Plath, I have had my fair share of 'daddy' issues, which although now resolved, have, in retrospect, led me into the arms of most of the innumerable lovers mentioned above. There is certainly more than a healthy dollop of hero worship which still occurs here, but what little girl doesn't love her daddy? My mother, bless her hippy heart, unknowingly bears the brunt of my resentment for mistakes made along the way - a current self-development in progress... My girlfriends are my saviours. The countless bottles of wine, the endless boxes of tissues, the gritty, gut-wrenchingly honest assessments of men and work and children and family that hurt and feel good and heal and expand me. Without these conversations I would not be here now, I would still be on the kitchen or bedroom floor unable to move due to a broken heart.

As a teenager I religiously kept a diary - it was pink and smelt like bubble gum, too great a contradiction to the content staining it's pages to articulate here - and when the guilt of my adolescent 'sins' became too much to bear, I burnt it in an attempt to remove myself from them. As I sit here now typing my first ever blog, that time really is a distant memory. My babies are sleeping soundly in the surrounding rooms and the love-heart shaped ice cubes have melted in my second vodka soda (I'm normally a wine drinker but have just come home from an overseas holiday to an empty cellar). My current husband sits in a golf course restaurant on the other side of the ocean hosting a trivia night for a group of 50-somethings. The fact that he's in a foreign country and I am in Australia is a blog entry all of it's own and will be explained at a later date no doubt... The cigarettes I don't smoke - I know darling I can smell it too, Joe from next door was talking to me over the fence and had a smelly cigarette in his hand - are serenading me with their vodka soaked dulcet tones, so I am going to retire to the moonlight of my back garden and inhale one final time before I put the uniforms in the dryer for tomorrow's school run. My words so far are an attempt at an introduction to my life and I'm excited about delving into the dust covered story book and putting my tale into cyber space. I hope any narcissistic self indulgence (which I will try in earnest to avoid) will be forgiven and my tales of past and present will provide a smile and a few raised eyebrows for some, while for me, become a record I can't burn. Thanks to my girls (you know who you are) for encouraging me to do this. x