YOUR CLUB AND MINE

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 314, 27 March 1928, Page 5

YOUR CLUB AND MINE

AN OPEN PAGE 1

Each Tuesday afternoon a corner will be reserved for original contribution* of general Interest to womenfolk. The subject matter is for you to choose —whatever topic interests you may also be of Interest or amusemen" to others, whether It be about your hobbies, experiences, or merely amusing musings about the ordinary round of the day. A book prize is offered weekly for the best effort, which should be brief, plainly written, and sent to “Your Club and Mine,” The Sun, Auckland. The prize has been awarded this week to Florence M. Stevens for the following article: REFLECTIONS OF A SURPLUS WOMAN Do you know the queer feeling of coming face to lace with your own reflection in a mirror, and not knowing who it was? “Whoever is this?” you murmur, walking toward yourself and noting with a critical eye the defects of feet and face and figure. Then the shock of realisation. “Myself, is that what I really look like to other people. . . ?” Just such a feeling came over me this evening when I took up the paper and came upon an article on "Surplus Women’ —women, left over after the lords of creation have taken their choice. And I am one of them—but I never thought of myself in that light until I read that article, and then I saw myself as in a mirror—middle-aged, uncomely, unwanted. I must confess I’ve never felt so dreadfully “surplus.” As a matter of fact I’ve always been so much in demand that I’ve never had time to sit down and be properly sorry for myself for being such an unnecessary member of the community. My friends give me no time for that. Invitations shower upon me. Usually they run like this: “Dear Jane.—We would love it if you would come and spend a month or two with us. The children have mumps and the house is being repapered and painted, but you won’t mind that. Spring cleaning will be sucli a change for you, and there’s nothing like change, is there?” Or this: “Dearest Jane.—We want you to come to us for a nice long visit. I thought of having my appendix out while you are with us, and we might re-cover the drawing-room chairs — you are se good at upholstery.” Unfortunately for Gwen’s springcleaning and Mary’s appendix, I am busy at present cheering Uncle Joe’s last days. I’m so useful for holidays, too —other people’s holidays. Some of my friends hardly wait until I’m inside their front doo.'s before they begin packing their suitcases. “I thought 1 would take advantage of your visit to have a real change, away from the family, dear Jane.” My cousin Jenny is one of these. Jemny belongs to the pretty clinging type. She is no longer pretty, but she still clings—it has become a habit. She clings to ine quite a lot. Unfortunately her husband needs a prop too. They muddle along somehow. Still, it’s nice to be wanted. It takes some of the sting oht of that dreadful article. Really, I felt for a moment as if I had committed some crime. It’s not as if I could help being “surplus” either. Someone said to me the other day: “I wonder why you never married?” She was one of those charming, inquisitive women. . . . 1 often wonder why myself. As a matter of fact no one has ever asked me. but I was not going to tell her that. I remember a remarkably handsome woman I knew, who at 40 -was still unattached. You could see the

question in men’s eyes when they met her for the first time —the uneasy question. “Can it be that none of us was good enough for her?” It was pleasant to see it rankle in their minds; for I knew her secret, it was the same as mine. None of the fools had ever asked her. They passed by this fine, capable creature and took the bits of fluff. tor myself I had one chance, or wnat might have matured into a chance. I turned it down. I was young then and arrogant, and quite nice to look at. I expected heaps more admirers. In my vanity I saw lon S procession of them coming through the future toward me. I nipped Alfred’s passion in the bud and he faded' away. No one took his place. 1 was all for looks in those days, and Alfred was plain; oh, very plain. It was his nose mostly, a ridiculous nose, several sizes too large for the rest of him. He was a good sort too, only 1 had not the sense to see it. Poor Alfred! I think he -would have mellowed. I’ve been happy enough, though, but of course I realise what I’ve missed in life. When I’m staying in houses where there are children—that’s when I’m sorry. I don’t envy any woman her man—it’s the children, the dear little babies. I can see them—my children—all with their jolly chubby little faces, sitting round the dining-room table. Once in a weak moment I told Poppy of my dream family. I loved Poppy in those days, but she only laughed. Poppy is married herself now, and she is waiting till she gets her golf handicap down before she has any family. Ah, well, who knows? Anyway, that is 18 years ago, and J have never seen Alfred since—all because I did not fancy the shape of his nose. I used to shudder to think of facing it across the breakfast table, day after day, week after week, year after year. I should probably have been much too busy seeing that the babies did not spill their porridge on the cloth, ever to have noticed it. I believe I could endure his face now. After all there is a. beauty in ugliness—a rugged kind of beauty. And he was rather a dear. I once heard him described by a woman as having “bold” features. “I always admire bold features in a man, don’t you, Jane?” she said. She married Alfred. So for lack of a little imagination, and the right adjective, I am numbeied among the surplus women. Such is the effect of a newspaper article. Some day I shall organise a strike of the surplus women. We will lay down our jobs in shop and office and school. We will leave the children we are mothering, the households we are helping along, the old folk we are tending, and we will show the world what it means to do without us. FLORENCE M. STEVENS.