DROPKICK ME
(jesus)
through the goalposts of life
Madeleine St John was a war baby. Born in 1941 like me. As soon as she opened her eyes she could see the goalposts looming before her. At 6 months she would have to raise herself to a sitting position, smile at the face hovering above her and say mama. At 12 months she would have to pull herself upright and stagger towards some legs and say dada. Down at the end of the line she could see the final goalposts. Loud and clear. It said 69 on the flag. Ah thought Madeleine, 69 years of living is just doable.
Somewhere along the line, they, the grey they, started to move those end goalposts. By the time we were all supposed to have kicked it they had granted us an extra 14 years. And if we are very good and get prodded and poked and scanned and take a bucketload of pills, and walk and talk and stay “with it”, we will be granted even more years. And who asked us? The tail enders of the Silent Generation?
Nearly 50% of us, the war babes, have already made it through the goalposts of life, including our friend Madeleine. Some a bit too early and some a bit too late, but made it. Not for them the wandering years wondering why.
Nearly 30% of those of us left are away with the pixies to put it politely. Another 30% of us limp, hobble, and generally stagger along although we would deny that we have a problem. I guess the rest of us still sing and perform in bands on repetitive farewell tours, continue to make our marks on paper, go to the gym, dance with each other, play bingo and pretend we are forever young.
So what are we really doing with these extra years?
Jetting round the globe while we can afford it. Then maybe a cruise or two. Roaming round the country in our grey nomad vans, hotly pursued by the baby boomers. After that we will be found walking around the prescribed walking tracks and stretching out our stiffness in the playgrounds for seniors. Have you seen us? In lycra? When that gets too hard we scooter along and pretend we are walking. Then at long last we fill a bed at a hospice or hospital and will hopefully be looked after. Ah yes. The goalposts are in sight.
But no one is going to help dropkick us through. It is against the law.
In the meantime I have been busy painting what these extra years mean to me. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes a little mad. This life is really a ridiculous game, not to be taken too seriously.
So I thought I would start a choir for those interested and we can assemble in the mall with the knitting nannas and sing Dropkick me Jesus. Maybe someone will hear.
