Chefprefers BLOG

I was seated at a country club table during a Morning Melodies event, a weekly show that unites the community. The entertainment features a Bublé-style performance. Unsure of what to expect, a middle-aged entertainer steps onto the stage, smiles, and raises his hand to shield his eyes from the bright overhead lights. He surveys the audience and makes a goofy gesture; half the patrons laugh, the others smile politely. He lifts his microphone and welcomes everyone. At first, it’s a bit awkward; he tells some humorous jokes, careful not to offend and aware of his audience’s age. Some laugh, others chuckle. He begins with an old familiar tune, the kind you hear in a lift or a shopping centre. The audience starts to stir, eager for the lyrics so they can sing along. Heads nod, fingers tap. They glance at their mates and start giggling.

Meanwhile, I sit here, wondering how I ended up in this place. A recent retiree with time on my hands to come along. Is this what I have before me? Years of Morning Melodies, week after week, like tending to Bingo or a Trivia function. People sitting together in a well-lit room, trying to relive that moment, believing there’s one more giggle, one more laugh or one more time to enjoy.

Scanning the crowd, I see an older bloke with an inverted smile, eyebrows scrunched, boredom lines on his face, lips parted like he hasn’t laughed in years. I wondered. I also spot a lady in a blue dress, a dress she could wear to a dance, hands clapping in the air, eyebrows raised, hoping for that familiar sound, the one that would make her stand up, step to the right and back to the left, waving her hands in circles to the beat of the magical tune, and something that would bring her joy once more. I’m Hopeful.

Although I feel a bit out of place — a sense of not belonging, like being in a space where I can’t relax, even though I’m here of my own accord. How could I have fun and enjoy it? I feel trapped, unsure what to do for the next couple of hours, pretending to smile and laugh. I wandered to the bar, not for a drink but for something to do. It’d be easy to keep walking out the door, maybe go for a stroll or play on the pokies. But I didn’t come alone to do that. Some of my extended family were back at the table, happily bobbing to the music. Should I go back? I wondered. I saw a man with a walker heading towards the toilet door. I rushed over and opened the door for him. He smiled and said thanks. I returned the gesture. He gave me a sense of purpose, perhaps I could stay and help. This could be the worst moment of my life, or the best. I wouldn’t find out unless I stayed.

I made my way back to my seat. On the way, a group of women were dancing on the carpet beside us. One lady stepped forward, took my hand, and led me into the dance group, urging me to join in. I saw the fun and started wiggling. The music — the sound — moved my spirit to the beat. My happy place started to come alive; I was reminded of high school, a dance we did, the moves we made up, and the thrill we shared. I wanted to shake like I did back then, flow with the music, and let myself go. It felt good, it felt natural. I closed my eyes and moved to the tune. When the singer finished, I opened my eyes; the ladies were laughing, giggling, and smiling. I smiled back and stepped out of the circle, heading back to the table, feeling like I belonged, with a big smile on my face. I stayed until the end and danced some more.

Then I realised why these folks were here today — searching for that special moment that makes them laugh and smile, a sense of belonging and fulfilment, or perhaps reaching that happy place, reliving their youth, and having the best time of their lives.