Page 1 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

A Very Bad Big Birthday

The worst day of my life begins as so many of my very worst days do: with an early morning text from my mother.

And not ‘a few minutes before the alarm is set to go off’ early.

This is pitch black, deep sleep, not even five in the morning early.

I don’t need to check caller ID. If the timing is appalling—if my body twitches and switches to flight-or-fight mode—it is my mother.

Plus, my mobile is vibrating to the tune of Cliff Richard’s ‘Devil Woman’.

Case closed.

But even by my mother’s despicable standards, today’s text is unconscionably early. And to be very clear, my mother sets an extremely low bar for inconsiderate and reckless behaviour.

Remember when Covid was first lapping our shores and passenger ships were stranded at sea all over the world?

Instead of bunkering down like any sensible senior citizen, my mother snagged a fabulous deal on a cruise.

A few days after they set sail, I got a muddled predawn text.

She and my father had been offloaded somewhere on the Australian coast. As you can imagine, it is incredibly difficult (and time consuming) to organise transport for two people who don’t know their exact location and are too proud to ask.

That’s one day of my life I’ll never get back.

Then there was the great Leaning Tower of Pisa fiasco.

On that occasion, my mother’s text came in the late afternoon (Central European Summer Time.

It was somewhere around 3am in Sydney). My father was already getting a bit doddery, but he still looked after all the holiday logistics; apparently, my mother didn’t want to undermine his confidence.

Anyway, on this particular day, Dad decided to carry all his cash and all his credit cards as well as all my mother’s cash and credit cards in his wallet.

He then proceeded to tuck the wallet into the back pocket of his trousers and stride into a densely crowded tourist plaza.

The bleedingly obvious happened and I ended up taking a day off work to track down their banking details, which might or might not have been in their safe at home.

I sorted that one out. I can’t remember how exactly. What I do remember is the carefully stapled printout of a magazine article next to Dad’s computer. It was titled ‘How to Avoid Pickpockets in Europe’. He’d even highlighted some paragraphs.

Now they are overseas again.

I pull the doona over my head, cover my ears and pretend for a few blissful moments that I am the kind of person who can ignore their mother.

And that Debbie Reddy is the kind of mother who can be ignored and not retaliate with months of passive-aggressive sniffing.

But she’s currently traipsing about the subcontinent with my confused father in tow, so, for the foreseeable future, I am a slave to my phone and her wilful indifference to time zones.

‘Just add four and a half hours,’ I had explained to her before she boarded the plane to Sri Lanka. ‘It really isn’t that hard.’

But my mother had responded with a perfectly lobbed sniff and an ‘of course’, which is her equivalent of a raised middle finger.

Somewhere out of arm’s reach but well within earshot, my phone continues to belt out Cliff Richard.

For a moment, I worry the commotion will wake my sleeping husband.

But a quick glance across the no man’s land of our bed confirms that Jonathan is already out the door and on his way to the gym.

I feel a wave of resentment but tamp it down.

Why shouldn’t Jonathan keep fit? What kind of awful person begrudges her husband investing time in his health?

I rummage through the junk breeding on my bedside table, my fingers fumbling for the light switch. A glass of water topples over, drenching the contents of my top drawer. Great. Now I’ll be going into work half asleep and wearing damp underwear.

It is an inauspicious start to a day that I have been dreading for months.

I’m not a big fan of birthdays at the best of times, but landmark birthdays tend to underscore all the ways life has fallen short of my youthful expectations.

And I have a task ahead of me today that will well and truly rub my innumerable failures into my unbotoxed face.

I’m already in a mood and I haven’t even read my mother’s text.

After a few more clatters and thumps, I locate the charger cable and give it a yank.

An (unhelpful) self-help book thuds to the ground.

A half-dozen miracle creams and an abandoned Fitbit avalanche behind it.

Phone finally in hand, I pull myself upright.

A jumble of fuzzy letters fill the screen.

I jam on my reading glasses and the text comes into focus.

Happy 50th Birthday, Bunny. I’ve bought you a gym membership at that place down the road from your house. Time to do something about that extra weight! Love Mum xx

I burrow my face into the pillow, close my eyes and try to breathe mindfully through the Egyptian cotton.

Inhale. My mother is not the devil.

Exhale. She is well intentioned despite her failure to respect time zones and my self-esteem.

Inhale. Turning fifty is not so bad.

Exhale. It’s a day like any other.

Inhale. Relax.

Exhale. What’s the worst that can happen?

Another text lands.

PS The tour is very disappointing. You can check out what’s happening via my new TikTok account!

I wonder what could possibly be disappointing about a six-week, five-star, luxury jaunt around the subcontinent. And what is Debbie Reddy doing on TikTok, for heaven’s sake? Given her penchant for an afternoon tipple, the idea of my mother starring in her own videos is truly horrifying.

Something mind-blowingly terrible is in the works, but I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with it right now. I’ll log onto TikTok tonight when I’m properly awake and in a better head space. At least then I can face the full horror of her new hobby with a glass of wine in my hand.

Lightning cracks in the distance, followed by the rumble of thunder and then loud, pelting rain. Peak hour is going to be a slow slog this morning.

I pull a shapeless old T-shirt over my head, grab a damp pair of knickers from the drawer and drag myself to the bathroom.

I splash water on my face and lean over the basin, studying the woman I have allowed myself to become.

The mirror is even more unforgiving than usual.

My jowls seem heavier. The line that cleaves my forehead is a deep gash and my hair is fifty shades of grey—and not in a good way.

There is nothing to recommend ageing. Or oestrogen deficiency.

I grab the hair dryer from the back of the cabinet and dangle my undies in front of the hot, whooshing air. The smell of burning lint fills my nostrils. The hair dryer is not an appliance that is on high household rotation.

When the fabric is dry, I return the hair dryer to the cupboard and make my way to the home office.

The moment of reckoning has come. I’ve hit the half-century mark. It’s time to honour a promise I made to myself thirty-six years ago.

I reach up to the highest shelf of the cupboard, feeling for the soft leather covering of my old journal.

I retrieve it and slip my fingers under the front sleeve.

The envelope is still there all these years later, as I knew it would be.

On the front is written in my neatest teenage handwriting: A note to myself on my 50th birthday. Do NOT open before March 8, 2022!

Over the years, I’ve resisted the urge to read whatever is inside. I’ve always felt like I owed it to my younger self to stay the distance. But the longer time has gone on, the more certain I am that thirteen-year-old Eva is going to make me face some harsh truths about my life.

With my stomach knotting, I tear open the envelope and pull out two sheets of lined paper.

January 1st, 1986

Resolutions for 1986 and beyond …

This year I will …

1. Study harder. A relatively pretty face is not going to get me into university or launch a successful career in journalism.

2. Climb a few rungs on the school social ladder.

3. Date a boy who makes me look cool. (See resolution 2.)

4. Get an article published in my first month on the school newspaper. (Can this be achieved alongside resolution 2? Or are they mutually exclusive?)

5. Stop wearing a T-shirt over my swimmers.

6. Be more patient with my mother. She is well meaning (I think).

7. Find a diet that actually works. (See Resolution 5.)

8. Establish a fitness routine. (Again, see Resolution 5.)

9. Save up to buy a pair of Guess jeans.

10. Look hot in a pair of size 8 Guess jeans.

By the time I am 50 I will …

1. Be a wildly successful journalist, referred to as ‘the Diane Sawyer of her generation’.

2. Attend the Logies. Actually, no—I’m going to HOST the Logies!!!

3. Be married to a famous and very handsome actor who is desperately in love with me. Or I might be single and fabulous. Either option is fine. As long as I don’t end up a bored and boring housewife living in middle-class hell.

4. Write a book.

5. Wear whatever I want without fear. I’ll be a fashion icon—like Lady Diana but without the dorky husband.

6. Forge a healthy adult relationship with my mother where we both respect mutual boundaries.

7. Appear on the front cover of a classy magazine. Vogue would be suitable.

8. Travel the world.

9. Star in my own workout video. Move over, Jane Fonda!

10. Still look hot in a pair of size 8 jeans.

Happy Birthday to me! I am so proud of you. I thought you might like to look back on just how far you’ve come since writing this in your dull suburban bedroom.

And even if you haven’t ticked off everything on the list just yet, I know you’ll have it all done by the end of the year. There’s still nine months to go!

Much love, Eva xx

I tuck the pages back in the envelope and return it to my journal.