Carol’s Column

I am a tree-trunk, Omo sofa

I AM an Omo. I learnt that the other day when a very distinguished sounding voice phoned to ask me to speak to the Rehabilitation for Detailed Cats Society. "Nothing too taxing, just a little one-hour speech or so, Ms Lazar," he said.

Of course, I agreed immediately. I was flattered. Wouldn't you be? Firstly, just being asked to speak implies a notoriety of sorts. Secondly, as a middle-aged mother of four, I enjoyed the Ms bit. It made me feel liberated.

Anyway, as I said, there's nothing like a little flattery to get one's libido ticking away at double time.

I mentioned my proposed lecture to my friend Maureen. Being naturally unreticent, I popped in a few fatuous remarks such as: "I can't imagine why they asked me to speak when they could have asked someone well-known like P W Botha, Nadine Gordimer or even Beau Brummel."

"But Carol," said Maureen without a pause, "you are well-known. You're a household name. Like Omo."

Shattered

To say I was shattered is an understatement. Who on earth wants to be an Omo? Okay, so no longer does a spring chicken flap around inside this torso — instead it's a well-matured duck a la Chanel. My hair isn't high-lighted by the sun, it's no-lighted by age. My brow no longer draws apart, it wrinkles together.

But to be called an Omo? Is Jane Fonda an Omo? Sophia Loren? Gina Lollobrigida? And they've at least 10 years, or so, on me.

I was distraught.

At this rate I wouldn't even be able to enjoy my menopausal mid-year crisis. It seemed I'd suddenly missed out and reached the end.

"How do you see me?" I asked my offspring desperately, knowing they'd be brutally honest.

"With eyes," said Jamie.

"No," I persevered, "what kind of a person am I?"

"You're not a person," said Ralph, "you're our mother."

"Yes," added Nicky, "you're comfortable, like Ralph."

I thought of our sofa. Bought at a fourth-hand jumble sale 19 years ago, it had three springs popping out, flabby arms, lumpy stuffing, shabby upholstery and a wrinkled behind.

"You're right," I muttered. "That's me, I'm an Omo sofa."

"Ma, what's the matter?" said Jamie. "You're the great the way you are. We like you comfortable."

"Wouldn't you like a mother who looked like Anneline Kriel? Wore tight, sexy jeans and Dolly Parton T-shirts and had Farrah Fawcett hair?" I asked.

Solid

"But Ma, you do wear Dolly Parton T-shirts," said Ralph. "It's just that the rest of you grows in a straight line, like a tree trunk. You're solid."

Great, I thought to myself. All my life I've wanted to be a comfortable, solid, tree trunk, Omo sofa mother.

Children shouldn't be seen, heard or spawned. They're rotten for morale.

My Stellenbosch grandmother, not the maternal Turkish belly dancer, the paternal mineral prospecting one, always said: "Fight Back!"

That was her motto. She did it for 84 years. She even refused to die until they'd dressed her in see-through chiffon and silk stocking with glitter seams. She said she wanted to have a ball in heaven.

So I fought back.

I contemplated doing a Sandra van der Merwe and going to Ezbieta Roeenwerth for a new image, but my budget didn't allow it. Nevertheless, I decided to throw off the tree trunk, Omo sofa image.

I joined the municipal keep-fit classes, invested in a pair of soft contact lenses, composed a glamorous speech for the Rehabilitation for De-tailed Cats Society and bought a black lace nightie.

Who better to try it out on than my spouse of 19 years?

Liberation

This was to be the liberation of the middle-aged drudge.

That night, I adorned myself with Dioriissimo-scented cold cream, swathed myself in black lace, put on mascara and rouge and leapt on my husband as he fell asleep reading Garfield.

His eyes opened. In shock. "Help!" he yelped as ballet-like he shot from our marital bed and disappeared down the street.

He hasn't been seen since.

I guess you could call that liberation of a sort.

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