What women think - July 2005

Are we having fun yet?

Why do women wear so much black clothing? For its orthodox heritage? It makes us look thinner? Or maybe, just maybe, we throw on our black pants and turtleneck each morning because that's one less thing we need think about.

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I asked a few Babes this very question. Jane, a New Farm dwelling singleton working full time in graphic design said wearing black was "so easy". Elizabeth, mum of one, another on the way, own business to run and a husband to love said "it just goes with everything". Kirsten, who has four children under eight squirming around her ankles and a list a mile long of extra curricular activities to take them to, said "at least I don't have to worry about stuff matching".

Women choose black because it's safe. A precaution. Black might not be fun, it might not give the same thrill as say a glittery evening gown or hot-pink jersey knit. But I find women have trouble experiencing personal fun and pleasure for themselves because their minds are on 50 other things at once.

I'm not talking about going shopping or sipping Chardonnay. These things don't count as "true fun". They may be temporarily fun but reality comes crashing back when the few hours of fun is over, and all that is left is a crushing hangover or a hideous credit card bill.

Sorry girls, eating doesn't count either. We think it should, and we wish it would, but it doesn't.

I'm talking about painting a mural, learning a language, doing a weekly yoga class, meditating, horse riding, playing the piano, knitting, amateur acting, sailing a boat, volunteering ...

Our society has made it easier to go wild with a Visa card or chug-a-lug a bottle of Chardonnay than to paint, meditate, knit or sail. You see, acquisition and speed are valued, and drinking and spending fit that bill. Painting, sailing or knitting don't.

In the USA a couple of years ago, a professor of psychology at a Californian university had people of both sexes wear a special watch for one day. At intervals this watch would beep and participants were to write down exactly what they were thinking at that time.

Men reported to be thinking about one, maybe one and a half things, while women averaged five. Having so many balls in the air makes it harder for us to become lost in a single personally-rewarding activity.

A boyfriend of mine once mentioned (yes, over a glass of the afore-mentioned Chardonnay) that he didn't feel I had any "hobbies", as in a pleasurable activity that I pursued on a regular basis. I nearly choked on my glass of Rosemount. Actually, I nearly picked up the bottle and clouted him over the head.

This fellow heads off to the wilds of Daisy Hill forest at least twice a week for a mountain bike ride with a group of mates. Night, day, wet, dry - you'll always find them pedaling away out there. He runs his own business and will cheerfully shut up shop at 3pm on a Tuesday if there's the chance of a bike ride.

He also likes to paint. Monet he ain't. Nor Renoir, nor Picasso. Actually most of his paintings look like train wrecks where there were no survivors but that's not the point.

The point is that he can guiltlessly leave a mountain of washing on his laundry floor so high that you need a compass and a hiking stick to navigate around it, ditto for dishes in the sink, ignore the lawn pleading for a mow and even his own children who want a bit of Dad time, and go and paint. He'll set up his easel, do a spot of pondering, then attack the canvas with true gusto.

I often don't leave the office at lunch time to go to a 45 minute Pilates class at the gym next door because of guilt and the feeling that there's something more important I should do. And I work for the government for goodness sake.

As for hobbies - what's that? I'm employed full time, I care for my daughter, I'm a single mum, I do some freelance work - I can't just pop out one night a week to my Latin dance class or French language class. I've got a child to look after and a house to run.

My personal pleasure is writing and for two years, I have been valiantly struggling to get a manuscript together. But when I think I've got time to write another chapter, I either want to go to bed (if it's night time) or fold the washing and vacuum the floor (if it's the weekend). Guilt drives me away from the computer and into the cleaning supplies cupboard.

I'm a V8 Supercar fan but I watch the cars doing their laps on a Sunday afternoon while I stand in front of the ironing board. My male neighbour, also a fan, drinks beer and eats pork crisps with his feet on the coffee table whilst watching. Let's play spot the differences.

And I think it's the same for a lot of women. Men can seemingly pack up and go fly-fishing or jet boat racing for a weekend without a second thought. They will sit and play their son's Game Boy for hours blind to the basket of clean washing requiring folding that's sitting at their feet. Have you ever seen a woman playing golf on her own? Think about it.

What stops us is that seditious inner voice squawking "you're ridiculous, you're too old to be doing this, and anyway, you haven't done half the things you were supposed to do today".

You have to face up to that squawking, and squawk back with "so what, I'm doing this for ME". Think about what it is you'd like to do and make a plan. Tell your life and everyone in it that you're doing something for yourself and that they have to take care of themselves, just for a while. Self-help books, the internet or your mother can't help you do this, only you can.

And remember, for that briefest of times, it's all about you. And that's ok.

Read other columns written by Bron

Bron McClain p 0412 326 300 e bron@bronmcclain.com