If you are still in the depths of despair or trapped in one of the four stages of breakup grief, be supremely confident of this fact.
You. Will. Date. Again.
It WILL happen.
From the combined knowledge of a Glo-Mesh clutch of 40s chicks (now there’s a collective noun if ever I’ve coined one) I’m told that a 40s chick rite of passage is to date one of the following:
- A footy dad
If it’s the latter, and this is new territory for you, there are a few tips for the uninitiated.
The kiddies ALL look the same
Even if you have navigated the first six months of dating a dad, just as in ten years you are not going to pick that kid out of a juvenile delinquent line-up, you have zero chance of cheering on the right kidlet in a game of under-9s.
They all look the same. Scruffy. Muddy. Unidentifiable.
40s chick tip: ask what number the kid plays under so you have some chance of ‘Whoohoo’ing at the right moment.
Write it on your hand if you must #highschoolthrowback
Sunday Morning Coming Down
Kids’ footy involves Sunday mornings. Yes. Sunday Mornings. Google them if it’s been a while since you’ve seen your last one.
Your previous life: you’d be shaking off a hangover and checking facebook to fill in the gaps about what went down the night before.
New life: you will be squinting into lacklustre autumn sunlight trying to feign interest in a small kid running round after a footy.
40s chick tip? Everyone carries a travel mug or takeaway coffee cup. Good? Maybe a Gwyneth-esque lemongrass and ginger tea in your travel mug. Better? A Bloody Mary with a little extra vodka to mute the impact of 36 humans yelling (and that’s just the parents).
The Chicks Frock Up
This is incomprehensible.
In an environment which screams you best layer up, snuggle a scarf and slide into Skechers, the chicks are rocking Sass and Bide, cashmere-merino blends and suede boots.
Suede boots, I ask you!?
Dust. Mud. The likelihood that a red-Gatorade-fuelled kiddie will step on you and imprint footy studs on your suede. None of these are a place where you parade a light-coloured suede item of footwear. A lamb has donated its life and the underside of its skin for your footwear and you take it to a local football field, subjecting it to unpaved paths and random spatter?
If there was a PETA equivalent for the protection of animal by-products once they have left the animal, they’d be ALL OVER these chicks.
There is no logic, as far as I can see, in frocking up for kids footy. It’s a desperate attempt to have a WAG moment, with nary a Brownlow Medal red carpet nor Beckham in sight.
Yet still they do.
There’s a chance that you have not yet shed your 40s chick lifestyle and there is indeed a Bloody Mary in your travel mug. This is the ONLY scenario that would see you appreciative of footy canteen food.
On the upside, you can get a hot dog, a bucket of chips and a drink for less than the lunchtime CBD prices of a ham and cheese toastie. The downside? You will have to wait behind a couple of 8 year olds who ONLY want a red/green giant snake, causing Meg from the canteen to madly sort the blue/green, orange/yellow and blue/purple gelatinous rejects with grudging precision to get to the coveted red/green ones.
During this time one of two things will happen:
- You’ll have moved on to a craving for a banana fritter which will have you sneaking off to the local suburban chinese restaurant
- You’ll be devouring the reject snakes
Either way, your BMI will not thank you tomorrow.
It never ends
Whilst you think your obligation is over by midday, you will have only bought yourself time for lunch and a nanna nap, as you’ll be right back there at 5pm for a curious phenomenon.
Yes. This is a thing. One where the under-9s coach, fuelled by an unrequited desire to be the next Mick Malthouse, will be silencing the room with a look, then imparting the benefit of his decades of football knowledge via the match report.
There are a lot of other things that you could be doing at 5pm on a Sunday. I know this as I realised long ago that this is the witching hour of the weekend, the border between weekend happiness and despair as the Pre-Monday blues set in. I’ve developed many a technique to stave off the malaise of 5pm Sundays. It used to be the window for ironing work shirts until I realised that this just brings on the malaise with a furious potency (I also discovered that the application of a hair straightener to the visible shirt elements – lapels and collar – was much quicker and just as effective)
Far more joie de vivre can be obtained from a glass of something chilled and an episode of Postcards.
Nothing joyous to be found in observing an under 9s coach relishing his 15 minutes of suburban fame.
40schick tip? Go all 50s housewife and offer to stay at home and tend to dinner. Whack something into the oven and give yourself the Postcards treatment.
Above all? Don’t worry. You’ve smashed glass ceilings, negotiated major contracts and nailed public speaking. You’ll be fiiiine. You’ll know this once you find yourself applying business transformation techniques to the operation of the sausage sizzle.
You’ve got this.
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