Boomers, bushwalks and beauty
January 28, 2016 § Leave a comment
So, I went to a retreat.
Shoulda seen this coming, but it was reeking with boomers. Comfortably-off boomers (just comfortable; if they were wealthy they’d be at Gwinganna) taking time out from their busy lives for some well earned pampering. I never knew such a group of soft cores, as dependent as children on how to eat and where they are and what to do. Whose idea of a personal health revolution is to eat a salad, ride a minivan to a lookout and then have a body wrap. Conversation often revolved around treatments. What treatments are you having today? What treatments are you having tomorrow? How was your treatment? This is the language of the retreat.
I met Celia from North Bondi and offered she must like the beach. No, she hates the beach. In her youth she left England and traveled on freighters, got off in Sydney, asked for (and got) a job at the ABC for the next fifteen years. That is just how it was then. Eventually she married (rather well I assume) a lawyer and lived in Vaucluse. She just loved the constantly changing views of the harbour from the house in Vaucluse. The lawyer died of smoke cancer, as people do, and Celia is seeing off her inheritance one holiday at a time.
Then there was Chris who worked in road construction, staying for 12 days. Twelve days! It better not be some kind of workers compensation deal. When in disbelief I told my partner, he said gravely “the first 12 days are the hardest”. Chris said that he had needed to “break some bad habits”. I was dying to know what the bad habits were but he didn’t elaborate. He said that he had learned some Good Strategies during his stay. I don’t think the strategies included walking because later that day he was driven the couple of hundred metres to the train station.
Which brings me to manicured and preserved Di, quintessential Third Wife, wearer of sunglasses at breakfast, finder of six-star cruise deals. Prefers to fly business class, is here for the treatments, puts ice cubes in her Sauv Blanc. In the hours that must be endured between treatments, finished her book.
In the gym where these people flex their limbs, raise their heart rates (but not over 60%) and push at machines there are (no joke) motivational posters. CHALLENGES. PERSEVERANCE. SUCCESS. The values that got boomers where they are today.
I went to the pre-breakfast stretch class and the bedtime guided meditation. I missed life coaching and Aquafit and Pilates because I was in the national park sweating away on foot and on bike. Like the kids of yesteryear, I showed up at meal times (the meals were nutritious and pretty).
Morton NP was damp, fragrant and gleaming, its escarpments and gorges like the blue mountains but with all the people removed. The forest was a catalog of our most famous natives: banksia, fern, tea tree, grass tree and several kinds of eucalypt. I had close encounters with a very vocal and demonstrative lyrebird. Deep in the valley I chittered at silvereye and yellow robin; up on top I admired a yellow tailed black cockatoo. There were grey kangaroos but also soggy, chocolate-coloured wallabies with weighty tails that looked like draught stoppers.
There are stair warnings everywhere. Steep track! Grade: Difficult. Contains steps. Take care when descending the stairs. I feel sad that it has come to this, that we are now so useless at moving that able-bodied people have to be warned about going up and down steps.
Erith Coal Mine was fascinating, Fairy Bower Falls scenic, Tooths Track treacherous. I had to turn back when, having traversed a newly fallen tree, I could no longer see the route. Alone and wary, I scrambled back uphill bashing at leeches clinging to my shoes. Fear is a good motivator.
I had a facial. This is an indulgence to which my conscience, if not my wallet, will not often stretch since it can more or less be replicated at home for free. I have never forgotten a Women’s Weekly or some such story about Princess Diana’s secret to a flawless complexion: an old fashioned scrub with a face washer. It probably wasn’t true.
Once you disrobe and arrange the towels in their strategic places, you wait. When the therapist knocks softly and enters, she adds MORE towels and blankets on top. Lying in a darkened room, eyes closed, legs together, arms by my sides, under covers up to my collar bones, I’m transformed into an olden day bride on her wedding night. Waiting.
And listening. Listening to the thread of a jar lid turning, to the rhythmic pumping of some thin liquid, the placement of mysterious instruments. Running water. A cloth being wrung out. The squelch and slap of oily hands warming and emulsifying. More pumping. More slopping. At last, the defeated puff of a cushion as she plops on a stool behind my ears and goes to work on me.
When, nearly an hour later (I have become a woman), she leaves the room so I can privately re-robe, I finally steal a look at the creams and oils and serums. They have names like Mermaid Scrub and Goddess Mask. I am very serene. On the way out, as I’m gliding across the floor like a ghost, she warns me to watch my step.
In sync with its clientele, the whole place is shutting down at the end of the week and going on retreat itself. The regulars (one is already booked in for March) understood, murmuring about how you need to take time out now and then and that they will probably do some maintenance around the place. I guess the retreat is having some retreat-ments.