This was published 7 years ago
Ageing disgracefully: Kathy Lette dreams of being a merry widow
By Kathy Lette
It's a fact of life that most husbands die earlier than their wives. Typical, eh. Leaving all the cleaning up to us women! Of course, where there's a will... we wives expect to be in it. But our families have expectations too – that we'll dwindle into fluffy slipper-wearing senility, then simply fall off the perch leaving all our worldly goods to them.
But the question is: now that we're solely in charge of the cheque book, why should we just check into some grim maximum-security nursing home?
"We'll just sail off into the sunset, frittering away our children's inheritance on cake and cocktails", says Kathy Lette. Credit: Stocksy
I'd rather apply for a Dignitas gift certificate. So here's a thought, girls. With all your widowed women friends in the same financial boat, why not pool your resources – and buy one?
My best girlfriends and I plan to cash up, when the time comes, and purchase a small cruise ship. We're going to call it HMS Panty Liner.
Kathy Lette.Credit: Nic Walker
Then we'll just sail off into the sunset, frittering away our children's inheritance on cake and cocktails. Is this a selfish and irresponsible thing to do? You bloody bet it is!
But just think how good it will be for our health. The chance of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation with a peachy-posteriored sailor with serious pecs-appeal would make any woman's heart beat stronger.
Our plan is to employ a muscular crew of hot-to-trot, bronzed young Love Gods in tight, white shorts, which is why we've also nick-named our vessel the "Aqua-disiac."
I've been best friends with this particular gang of girlfriends since we bought our first bras, making us true bosom buddies. But, as deranged working mothers, our time together has always been erratic and truncated.
The thought of all that uninterrupted girl talk and confessional cackling on board HMS Panty Liner means we're all actually looking forward to retirement. We're so excited we're already referring to our kitchens as galleys, our walls as bulkheads and bathrooms as "heads".
Our camaraderie means our ship will never turn into HMS Claustrophobia either. What's prevented me from going on a cruise in the past is the fear of being stuck playing remedial Scrabble with some old groper with halitosis and the personality of a house plant, or being forced to sing the harmony line to Kum Ba Yah ad nauseam.
But on the Good Ship Panty Liner, all entertainment will be supplied by us. We've decided to take up the instrument we gave up in our youth so that we can have a really bad band. (We'll be like the New Beatles – only with about nine Ringos.) We'll also have an inclinator for easy access into the sea, a masseur to rub us up the right way and electric scooters for when we want to pop ashore to purchase the odd indigenous nose flute and look at a few ancient relics (besides each other).
For extra "floatation" (a shipboard romance), we may even recruit some "gentleman hosts" to wine and dine us. We'll advertise for men who believe in life, liberty – and the happiness of pursuit. But any visitors who overstay their welcome will be made to walk the plank and of course, whenever one of us carks it, a quick burial at sea will suffice.
Our plan is to employ a muscular crew of hot-to-trot, bronzed young Love Gods in tight, white shorts.
At first we'll cruise the Med and the Caribbean, but once senility sets in, we can then just keep going round and round Sydney Harbour, like goldfish in a bowl, marvelling anew each day at the spectacular Opera House.
The point is, ladies, don't go quietly into that good night. Organise. Pool your resources. When your ship comes in, don't be marooned in some musty, dusty old people's home.
Watching handsome sailors with toned, topless torsos swab the decks gives a whole new meaning to navel gazing – and a reason to keep on living.
Originally published in Sunday Life magazine