Going for it is a term I’ve come to appreciate of late. Of course going for it doesn’t always mean you’re going to get it, or be  good at it. But it’s an opportunity to for something.. something that might be achievable. It’s better to have tried and failed that not got off your bloody arse and tired at all. Somebody old and wise said that in the ‘olde days’

But as I have matured I find going for it a lot more appealing. Let’s face it when we were all younger embarrassment was a key factor in us, well at least me trying new things.

A few months back I did something I never in my life thought I’d do, wait for it, I went to a burlesque class. Oh yes indeed I did. Well the simple truth is that I’d always thought it was very glamorous, I loved all the clothes and the dancing, the innuendo. It was  a mystery to me.

A friend of mine, who shall at this time remain nameless, informed me that her niece was a dance instructor and was in the process of putting together a burlesque class together.


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‘Sign us up’ sez I all enthusiastic like.

The truth is I’d no idea what it all entailed, having been all enthusiastic with my friend, fear gripped me, what would I have to wear. I scanned the internet looking for images of burlesque dancers.

Oh God Oh God there they all scantily dressed , with suspenders and tassels. I’d have to get suspenders and stockings, not a chance in hell I was doing the tassels, I needed a corset too. Where could I buy a corset, would it be comfy. Oh this wasn’t a good idea at all at all.

I watched Lady Marmalade on YouTube and was relieved that most of them were wearing big drawers, with frills naturally, but no feckin tassels.

‘Now we can wear comfy clothes’ my nameless friend declared much to my relief.

‘For now anyway, when we get tot the end we can dress up’ she concluded.

Which was good news for me as I still had time to look for a corset and frilly drawers. I quite fancied a bowler hat, like the dancer in Cabaret. I was definitely excited about learning to dance.

We arrived for our very first dance lesson and I must admit with some trepidation, but I’d decided I was just going to go for it. I didn’t care if I could dance or not , I didn’t care if I was rhythmless I was going to give this my best shot.

We assembled with the masses, well about ten other women of a similar age, who like us were just there for an introduction to burlesque. While and it’s always the same there’s a couple of people who are ‘armature professionals’ you know the sort they are members of an ‘amature dramatic society’. So they know more than the rest of us about dance and are capable of taking instruction without giggling. They had proper dance shoes and tights with off the shoulder tops. I had yoga pants and converse.

Now, if you’ve never been to a dance studio, I never had, let me tell you, the walls are mirrored, all of the bloody walls are mirrored. So you can see yourself from various angles and at various times and occasionally scare the bejesus out of yourself.

We listened to our dance instructor as she explained burlesque and some dance moves. She was excellent, she didn’t rush us she took her time and showed us each move slowly, while, ‘amateur dramatic professionals’ were quite impatient with our lack of knowledge and our inane giggling.

We were far from deterred, we burlesqued on, actually we looked like a pair of ejits trying to avoid a swarm of bees while ‘amateur dramatic professionals’ shimmed and shook their boobs and booties, that’s tits and arse to you and me. But they did it well.


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We practiced and we too shook our boobs and booties, at this point I should point out that my boobs operate independently of my body and one another  and danced whichever way they wanted, which for some reason was the opposite way that I was dancing. Yes I was dancing and I loved it.


‘Welcome to burlesque’ belted out over the speakers in the dance studio. Cher was in the room and so were we. Burlesqueing.

Our moment of glory had arrived, Cher was there, we were there, it was our turn to burlesque across the floor in front of the mirrored walls and the other burleseque queens. Then I saw myself in all my burlesque glory like an extra in a comedy show counting my steps as I went.

I didn’t look sexy or alluring. I looked confused and hot, with wandering boobs. This was going to take a lot more practice and possible some tassels.

But I went for it , we did, we laughed, we shimmed and we sang along to Cher.

The Joy of Going for It




The truth is I’m not sure I was ever any good at ‘Adulting’ or just being a responsible adult. I seem to have gone straight from puberty, stumbled  through adulthood and arrived at menopause with no sense of being responsible at all in the intervening years.

Here I am mid fifties and it has to be said ‘mid fifties’ sounds very bloody old. I’m comfortable enough getting old, really I am, possible because I never felt I was getting older. I feel like I’m 35 or so. I obviously have an acute case of age dysmorphia, I’m sure that’s an ailment, one of many I’ve developed.

When I arrived at fifty, people told me it was ‘just a number’ but it’s a bloody big number, but I was in good physical shape. I had little idea what age and menopause were about to unleash on me.

It would appear that I develop an ailment every month or so. This months aliment is arthritis. Well between you and me I thought I’d developed some sort of ‘sports injury’ I’ve no clue why I thought that as I don’t partake in any sports activities at all. After a couple of visits to my doctor and an x-ray later my doctor declared ..

‘You need to go to a rheumatologist’

‘Why?’ sez I ‘Do they look after sports injuries’


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And so it’d been confirmed, my poor right foot, the one I’ve been dragging around behind me for a number of weeks, is in fact, infected with arthritis. I’m not sure arthritis is an infection but it sure as hell is an ailment. This will mean of course that my stilettos will have to remain on the shelf. I’ll have to invest in comfy shoes and support tights.

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Last months ailment was insomnia. Not the sort that keeps you awake at night, oh no, I can fall asleep, my recent insomnia wakes me up half way through the night. I swear I don’t now how, but at 4am I’m wide awake. I lie and listen to the silence, wanting to but not daring to get out of bed. I’m terrified, absolutely and irrationally terrified of what I might meet if I stray out of my bed and into the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I’m convinced (irrationally) of course that every spider, big and small have union meetings in my bathroom after dark and plan how to scare the absolute bejesus out of me. Every spider, and there are many, run at what can only be described as an olympic pace in this house. I’m just thankful that they don’t travel in packs or make noise.


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Recent ailments have also included ‘growing sidewards arse syndrome’ Again,  i’ts something to do with menopause, my arse and boobs are growing at a frantic rate. Such a frantic that yesterday I bought ‘extra large’ extra comfy drawers. I’ll probable have to get some more next week.

Included in recent (and not so recent)  ailments is failing eyesight. I don’t know how it happened but it just did. Recently himself and meself ended up in a coffee shop. I love a good coffee shop, with its selection of  coffees and exotic pastries, preferably a French coffee shop.  For some reason, we both turned into sorta elderly people, fortunately this was just a temporary situation. We were fussing around one and other. We were close to calling one another ‘Dear’. Fortunately it didn’t happen. But something much worse did, oh yes much worserrr.. We didnt have a pair of glasses between us.

We were like two blind gobshites, fannying about unable to read a menu. The pair of us squinting. So what do you do when you can’t read the menu. I’ll tell you what you do, you ask for coffee and a tart. Then hopefully they’ll bring you coffee and a pastries and not some provocatively  dressed awl wan. Mind you himself might have been happy enough with that.

Then there’s forgetfulness ..

The Joy of an ailment






For those of you who read this blog regularly, you’ll be aware that I started out complaining about the menopause. As you may recall I was looking for something that might shed some light on my situation, having scoured Amazon I could only find books with ‘uplifting titles’ ‘The wisdom of aging’ or my favourite ‘The Joy of Menopause’ what I needed was something  a tad more truthful than ‘The Joy of Menopause’ which as we like to say in Dublin is ‘Me Arse’ Because it’s not a pleasant time and for me, it was challenging as I started to notice everything in a negative light, yes I know I’m blaming the menopause. I do that.

The truth is this blog has given way for me have a vent about everything, not just the menopause. It’s given me the opportunity to share some aspects of my life with strangers, who, for some reason, mostly seem to be American. Or as we like to call you ‘Mericans’ several Scandinavians and some in the Uk and four in Ireland.

So it finally happened, my over sharing got me into trouble. I kid you not. Well last weeks blog got me into trouble. I got banned from Reddit because I offended (not a nudist) but some young wan in ‘Merica.

I’ve never been banned from anything or any where in my life. This was so cool, I felt like a rebel, I felt tough, I felt defiant. But the truth was I was not obstreperous or tough, I was a 50 something woman living in Dublin, getting banned from an over 50 subreddit.

‘You’ve have been banned from this subreddit for one month’ that’s what I got in my mail box, it was signed ‘moderator’

ME banned .. WTF.. why..

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‘I’d rather like an explanation for my ban, if I’ve offended anyone in any way I’d like to apologise’ between you and me I was shocked so I was. Shocked.

‘One of our subscribers was offended by an article you linked on this page and has made a formal complaint.

A formal complaint, made against me and a ban, well I never, my sons were going to bloody love this.

I must confess I was feeling rather pleased with myself, I wasn’t sure many people read my blog, never mind having it offend them so much that they’d complain.

‘I’d like to ‘formally’ apologise for any offense I’ve caused’   now before you say anything  I realise this not fitting with my new status as a rebellious 50 something menopausal woman. But I thought I should at least offer an apology.

Well I wasn’t quite prepared for what happened next. The moderator  sent me what I can only assume was a copy of a review of the  ‘offending blog’

In my opinion the lady who wrote this blog is an asshole. (‘Merican obviously) she thinks she’s hilariously funny (I don’t) she’s not (I know) Actually this blog along with her other blogs are in my opinion vapid. Have no substance and only show her to be ugly inside and out. She offers opinions on a fetish (is nudism a fetish ?) she does not understand. She thinks she’s being funny ridiculing people’s bodies. (I ridicule myself all the time)  I find her and her blogs offensive.

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Well this was a great shock to me. Vapid.. really. Two geriatrics up a Welsh mountain in the nip in October was no laughing matter. It was ridiculous. However that’s only my opinion.

As for ugly inside and out. I’m working on the outside. The inside I’m afraid you’ll all have to decide for yourselves. However I have been known to scare the bejasus out of myself when I catch sight of myself in my undies. One of theses days the shock might kill me.

I thanked the modorator  and asked if I could respond to this ‘merican lady.

The result. You’ve been banned from communicating with any  modorators for 72 hours.






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