A few months ago, a friend called to ask if I’d like to join her on a surfing lesson. Giving thought to my answer, two images flashed to mind. My thirty-nine year old battle weary body, attempting to hang five with a gaggle of bewildered foreign backpackers and pointing school kids. And more vividly, the look on the faces of my settled couple and married-with-kids friends if they knew I was even considering the idea.
Having recently broken out of Sydney’s Lower North Shore maximum suburbia and moved to the fun-filled northern beaches, I had already become a prime suspect in their case against dirty-thirties attempting to recapture lost youth. It wasn’t that I’d been caught driving a red convertible sports car or acting suspiciously outside Botox clinics. However, I had been hauled into Fresco painted living rooms and interrogated under the glare of designer mood lighting over alleged mixed touch football games on weekends, bar hopping on school nights, and clubbing on any night, sternly warned that such activities were not something a self-respecting man of my age should be involved in.
“Sure, count me in” I replied. Breaking...
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