Well, I think I echo the majority’s sentiment when I say that 2020 isn’t shaping up to be the year we hoped it would be. There are new working-from-home arrangements to become accustomed to. Exercise regimes are confined to the parameters of our neighbourhoods. Queuing outside your local supermarket for your weekly shop is becoming the norm. The only interaction we can have with anyone outside of our respective bubbles is online or over the phone. It’s unlike anything we’ve experienced in our lifetimes to date, and even having lived under these circumstances for the last month, it’s still challenging to process the reality of our current situation.
I remember sitting at Conch in Ponsonby with my friend Summer after work one evening towards the end of last year. We were a couple of happy hour house reds deep, and as many of us experience at one point or another, we were feeling a little stuck in our current situations. Although content in our lives, I think we were both seeking some form of escape from our everyday routines. And so, we started talking about travel. I had intended to take a few weeks off work in 2020 to attend a friend’s wedding in the U.K., and the more Summer and I talked about it, the more I realised that this could be a prime opportunity to travel for longer than I had originally planned. We very nearly booked one-way flights to London then and there, figuring the rest would be future Summer and Belinda’s problem. Instead, we settled on a safer bet, purchasing relatively inexpensive return flights from Auckland to Queenstown for February. But the wheels were already in motion: London had left a message and was waiting for us to call back. What started as a bit of a fantasy quickly became a “we’re really doing this” and it wasn’t long before we began mapping out our journey. When it comes to travel, everyone needs a friend like Summer. She’s the friend who will happily trawl through travel websites and Airbnb listings for hours because she’s a holiday planning fanatic. Everyone also needs a friend like me, because nine times out of ten, I’m happy with whatever, so long as I have a place to sleep and snacks aplenty. Essentially, we were a pair made in travel heaven. Summer was brilliant at working out where we’d go, how we’d get there, and mustering up ideas of what we’d do, and I was brilliant at agreeing to everything. I’d spend a few weeks in the U.K. venturing around Scotland before attending the wedding, while Summer would be parked up beachside in Malta, no doubt sinking more than a few cocktails in the process. Eventually we’d meet in Budapest, and from there, we’d travel through Croatia, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Montenegro, Albania, Turkey and Greece together. All in all, it was going to be one epic near three-month European adventure. I’ve travelled before, but I’d never really done anything like this. A lot of us contemplate or have done an extensive OE, or have moved to and lived in a different country. Having been on-the-go since undertaking postgraduate study and jumping on a new career path, I felt ready to take a decent break from my ‘real’ life. Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t nor am I unhappy. I just wanted time to rest, reflect and reinvigorate myself. I was also excited to be able to have endless travel tales to fuel my writing, something I’ve missed being able to do regularly. My day-to-day life was starting to feel pretty humdrum and I was getting itchy feet. Aside from a couple of short trips across the ditch and domestically in recent times, I hadn’t really travelled in the last few years, and when you work in travel, it’s hard not to get caught up in the dream you’re helping to make a reality for others on a daily basis. It’s crazy to think that just over a month ago Summer and I still hoped that we might be traversing Europe together in July. Now we’re faced with the dreaded task of cancelling our dream holiday, undoing countless hours that went into booking, peeling our minds away from where we thought we’d be and what we imagined we’d be doing, and accepting any monetary loss that comes with it. To be frank, it sucks. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t cried a few frustrated tears, reluctantly letting go of what could have been. But of course, we are just two of many whose visions of 2020 have been flipped upside down. We all had ideas of what this year could be, and now, we’re not sure when we’ll see the other side of this, or indeed, how our world will look post-pandemic. Like most of us, I’m just taking it one day at a time. I’m doing my best to be present and reinstate a sense of normality in my everyday life. I’m checking in with my family, friends and colleagues, ensuring I’m proactive about staying connected. Amidst countless hours of overthinking, I’m learning to be a little kinder to myself, trying not to ruminate on the things I can’t control, but rather focusing on the things that I can. I’m paying more attention to my mind and body, taking stock of my thoughts and feelings, and keeping my physical wellbeing in check. I’m finding the balance between spending time doing the things I love and remembering that it’s okay to take a break and just be. When I think about what others have lost and what hardships they will endure in the months if not years to come, I consider myself incredibly lucky. I’m isolated with the three human beings who mean the most to me – there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Each day, I take a moment to reflect on the things that I’m grateful for. Such things are never in short supply. Although we’re not going to Europe, I’m grateful that Summer and I were able to spend a weekend in Melbourne for my birthday, and nearly a week in Queenstown for hers. I’m grateful for the last time I was in the company of friends. I’m grateful for the last meal I had at a restaurant. I’m grateful for my last kiss. I’m grateful to be surrounded by some incredible human beings, including those who I’m currently physically displaced from. I’m grateful for all the places I’ve seen and all the things that I’ve done. I’m grateful to be home. Healthy. Alive. Although, right now, it feels like there’s no end in sight, as a forever optimist, I know things will get better. I know I’ll get to travel again once the dust settles. I know the feelings of uncertainty will slowly but surely dissipate. I know we’ll be reunited with those near and dear to us in time. Until then, I’m trying to live by a motto I learnt while I was on the island of Caye Caulker, just off the coast of Belize, nearly four years ago: “go slow”. It means to embrace a quieter pace of life and take it easy. As someone who is usually rushing around like a mad woman trying to accomplish everything under the sun, it’s an important reminder in times like these. So, be kind to others, be gentle with yourself, and try to enjoy the extra bit of relief that comes with doing things a little more leisurely than usual.
2 Comments
Happiness. It’s something we all seek, and arguably, it’s the key ingredient for us as human beings to live fulfilling lives. But how do we find it, and what is this feeling of happiness rooted in?
A lot of us live what I’d describe as ‘checklist lives’. Finish school? Check. Pursue further education? Check. Travel? Check. Get a job? Check. Meet the love of your life? Check. And on it goes, as we work towards these milestones that we’re conditioned to believe will deliver on their promise of providing life-long happiness. And sure, they do. But sometimes it seems as though once one item is checked off, it’s straight onto the next. With that, our measuring stick for happiness begins to transform as we continue on our quest to find the next thing that we hope will bring us an insurmountable, everlasting amount of joy. These life successes, or ‘big ticket items’ if you will, often become the parameters of happiness, and as a result, our definitions of what happiness and success are become so blurred that the former doesn’t seem possible without the latter: to be happy, you must be successful. But then, that begs the question – what exactly IS success? If you asked two people to paint their idea of what success is, you’d end up with two vastly contrasting, contradicting pictures. And who’s to say which of these pictures is more accurate than the other? We all know what it's like to have someone in your ear, telling you how you should live your life if you want to be successful, and indeed, happy. It’s one thing to offer advice, but it’s never our place to project our image of success onto others. Living in the digital age further complicates our path to happiness. It’s hard to not be consumed by what we see on our screens, scrolling past the grand achievements of friends and loved ones gallivanting across the globe, while you’re sat on the couch with your mum and dad, wearing your ‘home clothes’, covered in chip crumbs (#helpmeimpoor). While such things should be celebrated, it’s important that we remind ourselves that a moment doesn’t have to be Instagram-worthy to be fulfilling. Far too often we make the mistake of attributing our happiness to a specific person, place, or thing, when really, it’s our perception of said people, places and things that make us feel the way we feel. At the end of each day, particularly the more difficult ones, I find that taking time to reflect allows me to see my world from a different perspective. Finding at least three things I’m grateful for during the day, no matter how big or small, can help shift my mindset from negative to positive. Sure, I may not have checked everything off on my to-do list at work today, but I sure as hell enjoyed the dope leftovers I had for lunch. So, what do I think happiness is? To me, happiness is driving over the Harbour Bridge every morning to get to work, contemplating how picturesque my home city’s skyline is. It’s reclining on the couch with a perfectly brewed cup of tea in hand, feeling the sun’s rays as they greet my skin through the window. It’s rolling over to check my phone in the early hours of the morning, only to find that I’ve still got plenty of time to fall back asleep and dream. It’s finding a book so good, I get lost in its pages and just about forget what world I’m living in. It’s dancing around in my living room when I’m home alone, listening to my favourite music full noise, the whole house reverberates. It’s sinking my toes into the sand as I approach the ocean’s edge in anticipation of my first swim of the summer. It’s finishing my gym class and getting a second burst of energy for the day thanks to an endorphin high (it’s also taking a bubble bath to soothe those aching muscles after, too). It’s snuggling up in bed after a long day. It’s spending time and talking about the future with my parents. It’s laughing myself silly with friends over a bottle of wine. It’s being content with who I am, where I am, and what I’m doing. It’s, well, living. In sum? Have your goals and reassess them regularly. Don’t stop aspiring towards those milestones. Just remember to enjoy those simple, little moments in between accomplishing your ‘big ticket items’ – they’re equally as important, and among some of the most rewarding experiences we’ll have on our respective journeys. Happiness can be found in a lot of seemingly ordinary things. You’ve just got to open your eyes. Over the years, I’ve liked more boys than I can count on my fingers and toes. Such feelings have varied in intensity, from schoolgirl crushes to full-blown, sickly-sweet love. But, in between all the dating faux pas and failed romances, I think I’ve only really loved three people in my life to date. And when I say loved, I mean it in the way that your insides feel all funny when you see them, your heart beats faster when you think of them, and when such love ends, it hurts. Heartbreak aside, it’s what I’ve learnt from these individuals and how they’ve contributed to my personal growth that I value most. So, without further ado, let me introduce you to The First, The Second and The Third. The First Everyone has a first love, don’t they? Maybe not that deep “I’m in love with you” kind of love, but that kind of “love at first sight” love where from the moment you lock eyes, you both know: it’s on. At 18, I was what I would describe as a “former ugly duckling just turned swan”, like a girl realising that she is fast becoming a woman before she really has the chance to process what’s happening. Having attended an all girls high school, I was unsure how to handle attention from boys, almost working myself into a state of panic any time one approached me to say “hi”. The First, who I met through a job I had during my time at university, was popular, confident and charismatic - so, pretty much the antithesis of my former self. The exact moment I recognised my attraction to him was when we passed each other in a narrow corridor and began following each other with our eyes. From that moment, we were like two magnets, drifting towards one another whenever in close proximity and searching for one another when not. It was fun, exciting, and, for at least a short while, it felt as though (cue vomit) we only had eyes for each other. But when you’re young and seeing everything through rose-tinted glasses, not everything is necessarily as it seems. My heart broke little by little as he grew distant, spent less time, and eventually, dismissed me almost entirely. And just like that, I went back to feeling like that ugly ducking all over again, wondering what I could’ve possibly done to make him think differently of me. Of course, I now understand, it’s never really about you. As it turns out “it’s not you, it’s me” is actually pretty legitimate. Although I was crushed at the time, as the old saying goes, time heals all wounds, and life goes on. Even after I left that job, The First and I still ran into each other frequently. These two magnets, now trying to stay apart, managed to keep finding their way back to one another. Although there was never an intention to rekindle what we once had, that feeling was still there. Such unprecedented chemistry is hard to shake, let alone forget. We’ve still kept in touch over the years, albeit sporadically. Whenever we do reconnect, however, it’s as if nothing has changed (although, a lot has changed). There’s something incredibly comforting about that, even if it’s not a catalyst for anything more than nostalgia and reliving old memories. Despite the various ups and downs in our relationship, both past and present, this love still holds a special place in my heart. After all, he was, and will always be, the first. The Second Ahh, The Second. I don’t think I’ve ever loved and hated someone so much simultaneously. Love is an incredibly powerful emotion, and even when you know it’s wrong, you’ll do anything to try and make it right, because in that moment, the thought of living your life without them doesn’t seem possible. During my final year of undergrad, and after several failed romances, I decided to bite the bullet and give Tinder a crack. A few unsuccessful dates later, I met The Second. Everything seemed to happen so organically - nothing about us was forced, and it just felt, well, right. He was the first person who I truly fell in love with, and it didn’t take more than a few months. The honeymoon period, in hindsight, was short-lived, and like any relationship, it wasn’t perfect. I could go into detail, but that would be require me to dig into the depths of mind to try and recall anything that I haven’t already erased. And, to be fair, it’s just sad, discussing the things that once made you feel like a shell of a human being. When you find out that you’ve been constantly lied to throughout the duration of your relationship, it’s hard to determine fact from fiction. Honestly, I’m not even sure if he knew the difference either. Is it possible to become so entangled in your lies that even you start to believe they’re true? Sometimes I wonder if that’s what he thought - everything he said was with absolute conviction. It made me feel physically ill realising that this person who I had spent all this time with was not who he had made himself out to be. Beneath the lies, the cheating, the manipulation, the unstable mood swings, narcissistic tendencies, and just plain nastiness, I don’t think he knew who he really was either. Being with someone like The Second was hard, particularly in those last few months where we were still together, but not quite together. Not understanding how his mind worked and how he operated became an obsession. I wanted to understand, I had to - I still loved him, after all. But ultimately, all the care in the world didn’t make a difference. He had no desire to change, and eventually, I had nothing left to give. Whenever (rather if) I think of The Second now, I feel, well, nothing. It’s almost as if we were never involved in each other’s lives to begin with. Isn’t it crazy how two people can go from being so in love to being nothing at all? “You are just the worst.” Those are the last words that I said to The Second before hanging up the phone and closing that chapter in my life for good. But, if I had the chance to add anything to that now? Well, I’d say this: “Thank you for making me the strong, no bullshit woman that I am today.” The Third They say you find love when you least expect it, and even with my eyes wide open, I couldn’t have seen The Third coming from a mile away. We met through mutual friends on a night out. After being briefly introduced, we all headed to a local bar for (more than) a few drinks. Having not paid much attention to him throughout the evening, it wasn’t until my friend whispered in my ear and said something that resulted in one of those personal light-bulb moments: “So, what do you think about him?” Before I knew it, The Third and I were waking up together the next morning in a location that could only be described as precarious. Whoops. Feeling slightly worse for wear, we got up and made ourselves look somewhat presentable before he dropped me back off at my friend’s place. Not really knowing what to say, I just awkwardly patted his leg before saying “see ya”, assuming that what had just happened would not be happening again. Half an hour later, we were sitting at opposite ends of the table with our friends over brunch, looking a little sheepish and feeling substantially hungover. Several text messages and just over two months later, we went on our first date. The Third realised his feelings for me pretty much from day one - it took me a while to catch up. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me the way The Third did. It’s something I won’t soon forget. You know that look? The way someone looks at you like you’re the most wonderful person in the world? Yeah, that was the look. To be showered with so much care and affection was overwhelming off the back of an incredibly toxic relationship, and I was wary of diving in head first for fear of having it all thrown back in my face. I struggled with verbalising my feelings, convincing myself that physical expression was safer than saying anything at all. By the time I realised I loved him, it was too late. The Third assumed that what we had wasn’t going anywhere, and that was largely due to his uncertainty around how I felt about him. I get it. Why would you want to invest all your time, effort and energy into someone who you’re not convinced feels the same way? He deserved someone who didn’t keep him guessing, and I just couldn’t be that person when he wanted - I wasn’t ready to be. I am so grateful for The Third. He helped me to re-learn how loved I am and can be. He taught me a very important life lesson in that you should never be afraid to say what you’re feeling - there’s nothing to lose, but potentially so much to gain. When I meet someone who I develop such feelings for again, I won’t make that same mistake. The Fourth Okay, so I said I’d loved three people. I wasn’t lying, but there is another for which my love continues to grow the more I get to know them: me. Sometimes I think we spend too much time trying to love others that we forgot to love ourselves in the process. This year, I’m making it my personal mission to treat, care for, and love myself more than ever before, to stop comparing my journey to others, and to just embrace the ebbs and flows of life. I’m proud of the person I am, and the person I’m becoming. My pathway has never been paved, but each and every day I’m working towards creating the best life for myself that I can. A life that one day I’ll be able to look back on and smile about, knowing that I did what I set out to do, all while being the best possible me I could be. It was a Thursday evening and Danger, SB and myself were sitting in Auckland airport’s domestic terminal, glass of wine in hand, waiting to board our flight to Christchurch. The three of us would be joining our friend Jagger before embarking on what can only be described as the classic girl’s weekend: a road trip to Queenstown. Armed with a Red Bull energy drink, a pack of sour cream and chive flavoured Grain Waves and a zip bag of lollies reminiscent of your local dairy’s five cent selection back in 2003, I was ready for the arduous one and a half hour journey ahead. I read the trashy magazine that I had picked up earlier, along with the aforementioned high-nutrient snacks, from cover to cover (reading recycled, decade-old gossip about Brangelina’s taboo romance is still as riveting as ever) to pass the time, and before I knew it, we had touched down in Crusader territory.
Our chariot came in the form of Jagger’s signature red Suzuki Swift. Known for its generous leg room and head space, the Swift was to be our mode of transportation for the next few days. After spending the night at Jagger’s flat, we woke up early to enjoy a cup of tea (courtesy of her full-time flatmate and apparently part-time butler, Logan) before we hit the road. A quick Maccas run for coffees, hash browns and McMuffins en route would sustain our energy levels for the long drive ahead - or so we thought. Two hours in, the pangs of hunger kicked in once again, so we made an executive decision to stop off at Fairlie, home to some of the most legendary pies that this country has to offer. I ordered and sunk my teeth into a pork belly and apple sauce pie which came in a brown paper bag, drenched in grease (an absolute sight for sore eyes). After brushing the excess pastry flakes away from our mouths and off our laps, we piled back into the Swift and began making our way to our next destination. It wasn’t much longer before we were parked up by the stunning Lake Tekapo which provided an excellent backdrop for some Insta-worthy and totally candid photos. We could’ve easily wiled away the afternoon there, basking in the sun and admiring the azure blue water and the pink and purple wildflowers that surrounded us. Our little piggies enjoyed a brief dip in the crisp shallows before it was time to move on. The hours in the car passed as we listened to classics by the likes of Fleetwood Mac, Cat Stevens and Miley Cyrus (the lyrics to “Party in the U.S.A” are fucking timeless). By mid-afternoon, the snow-dusted tops of the The Remarkables were in sight and we were finally in Queenstown. After checking into our accommodation, we decided to wander into the town centre. Dinner was just around the corner, and coincidentally, so was the infamous Ferg Burger. Even though my name on the docket was spelt “Balinda” (do I look like a sheep to you), all was forgiven after I took my first bite. We dined al fresco, picnic-style by Lake Wakatipu, all while drinking the finest Moscato that Jacob’s Creek could offer out of plastic vessels. It may have been daylight savings, but night was falling and that could only mean that it was time to put on our dancing shoes and take Queenstown by storm. We stumbled across a rooftop bar (otherwise known to non-NZ residents as a quaint, uncovered terrace) that seemed to be drawing the crowds (again, otherwise known to non-NZ residents as between 30-50 people). A serious lack of seating forced us to act like vultures, scouring the scene for any sign of movement in the hopes of bagging a perch. Sipping on the best glass of bubbles that $13 could afford, we spotted 4 men hovering around a table that looked like our final nesting spot. A quick introduction revealed that they were pilots from Australia (allegedly), no doubt on the lookout for some shelias to watch the sunset with. Unfortunately for them, we only had our eyes on the prize (the prize being their table and four seats). The only question that remained was how. So, for one night, and one night only, Danger, SB, Jagger and myself became the charming yet elusive Laura, Angela, Katherine and Abby. A seemingly foolproof idea, our fake names were complemented by elaborate backstories, with Angela’s famous jockey boyfriend, Michael Clearwater, taking the cake. Terrible liars at the best of times, the jig was soon up as we reverted to using our real names (this may or may not have also had something to do with the amount of alcohol that was racing through our bloodstreams at that exact moment in time). In typical Aussie fashion, the lads took it on the chin, had a laugh at our expense (or theirs?), and graciously relinquished their seats. We celebrated the success of parking our rear ends with more $13 bubbles and having my unshaven legs caressed by a stripper named Candy. Soon enough, our insatiable appetites came back to haunt us, so we decided to pick up some Domino’s pizza to see us through the 10 minute walk home and call it a night. We were all feeling a little bit seedy the following morning, but with a full day of activities planned, there was no time to waste. A delightful brunch was proceeded by a hike up Queenstown Hill. Even as the most athletically-challenged member of our group, I was keen to flail my gangly limbs about and get the old heart rate pumping. The first twenty minutes or so were relatively uneventful as I maintained a steady pace, taking in the views around me. But even with my long stride, the others powered ahead, and eventually, I lost sight of them completely. “No matter,” I thought to myself, “I’ll see them when I get to the end (three days from now).” All of a sudden, my hangover began to rear its ugly head. My insides churned and I reached for my phone to text the girls what could’ve been my final goodbye. After sitting on a tree stump for a few moments, having contemplated death, I collected myself (controlled my bodily functions) and completed the trek to the top. I may have lost a little bit of my dignity along the way, but it was absolutely worth it. Thankfully the walk down was more pleasant than the walk up. A quick spritz of deodorant and a change of clothing later, we headed over to Skyline where the gondola and luge awaited us. While Danger and I cruised down at our usual, non-competitive pace, SB and Jagger hooned their way around the track in classic Sarah versus Sarah fashion. This made for some hilarious action shots, with Jagger nearly flying out of her cart after going over a bump at approximately 100kmph. Feeling sufficiently sticky in nearly 30 degree heat, we opted to treat ourselves to overpriced bottles of water and ice cream before getting back on the gondola to discuss the probability of gondola-related fatalities. The rest of our afternoon was spent lakeside with more booze and a makeshift platter of cheese, crackers and dips. Unfortunately we were sans knife, but we were able to make use of our AA membership cards (that we had initially brought with us on the trip in case we needed automobile assistance) as an alternative. The set up was less idyllic than that of the previous night’s burger feast, largely due to the lack of sunlight and one pesky duck that kept trying to steal our chips (and you know how I feel about my chips being stolen - not good). Despite this, we managed to squeeze in a cheeky nap under a canopy of trees before it was time to get ready for dinner. A delicious Vietnamese meal was received well by our ever-hungry tummies later that evening. Danger and I also enjoyed a dessert at another local bar shortly after (what can I say, we like to eat). Too much partying and lying about our identities the night before had proved to be too much for this group of friends, so we retired to our accommodation early to end our trip the way it started - with a cup of tea. Brunch the next morning was bittersweet as it meant we’d be saying sayonara to Jagger (and the Swift) once again, at least until our next adventure. After a round of bear hugs, I sat at the Queenstown airport with Danger and SB waiting to board the plane, and thought: “Shit, I’m lucky to call these misfits my friends.” Ahh, to be young and in love. Isn’t it wonderful? Well, I would assume so. I was in love once, but that was with the human embodiment of Satan, so it’s probably safe to discount my experience for the general consensus that love really is, as previously mentioned, wonderful. For those of us who remain unattached, to be young and seeing-someone-but-not-really-sure-if-you’re-seeing-them-by-whatever-the-definition-of-seeing-someone-is-because-you-haven’t-had a-conversation-about-what-you-are-or-how-you-feel-even-though-they’ve-seen-you-naked is probably a more accurate depiction of the average singletons current situation. To put it simply, very few of us know what the hell we’re actually doing. In fairness to those few, those who prefer affairs of the strictly casual persuasion, and those who are emphatically set on saving themselves for their soulmate; congratulations. You’ve been blessed with the gift of feeling absolute certainty. For the vast majority of us, however, who fall somewhere on the spectrum of these two vastly contradicting desires, learning how to navigate our way through the dating minefield is no easy feat.
Let’s use an experience of mine as a shining example. They all start the same: I met a guy (such an event is usually announced immediately to close friends and followed by the statement “oh my God, tell me EVERYTHING” at which point there really isn’t much to tell, but we’re bloody amped about it and we’re going to overanalyse all the insignificant details together anyway). At first glance, (cue fake name) Doug was attractive, but I had to know if he was more than just a pretty face, if there was more to him than meets the eye (and not in a Transformers “robots in disguise” kind of way). So I did what any modern, go-getting woman would do and asked him out for a drink. Before I knew it, we were sitting at a bar, engaging in quality banter, throwing our heads back in fits of laughter, and finding any excuse to make physical contact. From the moment our knees touched, I was smitten. Of course, the first few weeks with Doug were great. He was faultless. Well, that was until I used the word euphemism in conversation. When I was met with a dumbfounded expression and the words “I’m just a builder” as his response, I knew we were in trouble. Not as much trouble, though, as when he told me about a time where he went out of his way to be blatantly rude towards a group of females on a night out. I listened in disbelief as he spoke with a sense of pride. Had he forgotten that I too was of the fairer sex and not one of the Neanderthals he usually shared his company with? In that moment, he went from being the image of perceived perfection to, well, just a bit of a dick. Needless to say, I didn’t see Doug after that. Instead, I was left to wonder how I could’ve gotten it all so wrong, again. Initially it seemed that Doug possessed a number of attributes that I found attractive. In the end, however, his quality of character was about as appealing as a sheet of cardboard, and a flimsy one at that. I felt deflated. I got excited about someone before I really even knew them, before I could discern if we had more in common than superficial first impressions could attest to. Someone once told me that it’s easy to go fishing; you just have to put your line in the water and see which fish takes the bait. It’s trying to catch a good fish in a sea that’s full of all sorts of them that’s the real challenge. Metaphorically speaking, the same can be said about the compatibility between two individuals. Regardless of whether you date actively or passively, meeting and finding a suitable match is not just a matter of knowing what you want, but a process of figuring out, early on, whether or not someone you’re interested in is actually right for you. It’s about following the basic principles of “it’s not you, it’s me.” But what happens when you’re faced with several counts of incompatibility? Whether you’re the the rejected, or the rejectee, surely even the most confident singles can’t help but ask themselves the question: maybe it is me? While I’ve had my fair share of my dating mishaps, I like to think I’m still dateable. Even though my level of physical attractiveness peaked too soon at the tender age of 19, a recent, passing comment that I was a “solid 7.5, and at least an 8 in the wind” assured me that I do indeed still have it (in the sense that I’m not completely hideous). I’m moderately funny, I use an adequate selection of vocabulary, and if you refer to my CV, you’ll find that I very much enjoy going for nature hikes to keep fit (not as much as I enjoy consuming bags of crisps, though - honesty is key). In all seriousness, I don’t always toot my own horn. I’m self-assured, but I’m not without my flaws. To put it in 21st-century terms, I’ve swiped right to more carelessly judged individuals than I’d like to admit and I’m guilty of using images of cats donning bow ties to diffuse difficult conversations about feelings rather than express myself with words. Despite such cringeworthy experiences making me wish that I was as asexual as a leaf, they haven’t all been bad. Far from it. But even so, the most eligible people are still susceptible to the perils of dating etiquette, and the happiest of singles aren’t immune to thoughts of loneliness and longing, either. When you’re a single, heterosexual female, so single in fact that the last text you received from a male was 5 weeks ago (and it was the thumbs up emoji from your dad), it’s easy to start feeling nostalgic about certain people you’ve dated. The presence of social media in our lives does little to appease this. One minute you’re scrolling through photos of puppies on Instagram and the next you’re confronted with a picture of Randall, the moron who ghosted you after your third date, holding a surfboard and throwing up a shaka on some beach in Hawaii, captioned: “I’m catching waves not babes, dude.” Now, I know what you’re thinking, as you roll your eyes: you’re so over Randall. He doesn’t even have a hot name and his Insta captions are whack. But let me tell you, those pecs and that six-pack you just feasted your eyes on beg to differ. This image of Randall living his #bestlife sets the wheels of nostalgia in motion. He wasn’t so bad, was he? I mean, he’s educated, he’s somewhat athletic, and he was funny, I guess. Remember that time when the two of you drank that $10 bottle of pinot noir on the beach while you watched the sunset? Charming, right? Yeah, Randall was cool. On another note, do you remember that guy who decided to never speak to you again without any forewarning? Oh, that’s right, it was the same guy (and yes, he was terrible)! Speaking of nostalgia, I had a little dalliance with it myself recently. I was mindlessly looking at my Facebook newsfeed, stopping every so often to tag my friends in posts that someone basic might describe as “so us” when, suddenly, I was faced (Facebook pun) with a photo of an ex-not-boyfriend-but-something. Our not-quite-relationship didn’t end on bad terms. In fact, it didn’t really end at all. I mean, how does one end something that had no definitive existence? Communication just became less frequent and wasn’t enough to sustain whatever we had. Despite this, all I could think was: “Wow, (insert name here) is looking good. Like, real good.” Soon enough, I was playing our memory reel back in my mind’s cinema, wondering why we weren’t still holding hands and skipping through fields of flowers together (Disclaimer: This didn’t actually happen. Sorry to all the hopeless romantics out there). For a brief moment, I felt tempted to reach out with a half-assed “hey stranger” wishfully thinking that such an unimaginative message might reignite the flame that our mutual fade put out. I opened our conversation, scanned over our old messages for all of five seconds, then promptly closed it. That small window of time was all it took to remind me of one, simple fact: he was about as enticing to me as a carrot is, without hummus. Don’t get me wrong. Carrots are great. I like carrots. Fundamentally, there’s nothing wrong with them. But it’s hard for me to like carrots just as they are. Why? Because I want them covered in hummus, too. I mean, imagine eating plain carrots every day. No fancy trimmings, just ordinary carrots. You’ve got to ask yourself: is this it? Is there not going to be any hummus? And what about the olives, where are they? Or the sun dried tomatoes, or the cured meat, or the cheese for that matter (a girl’s gotta have some Camembert)? If you’re being completely honest, you want everything on your damn platter. Would you be prepared to settle for carrots alone? Even though you know something is missing? Could you really, truly love carrots, as they are, for the rest of your days? No? Then stop wasting your time with carrots and go find yourself the platter you deserve. Ridiculous analogies aside, the bigger idea is this: it’s easy to see the people you like through rose-tinted glasses. Instead of falling for the person in front of us, we often get lost in the idea of what we hope they will be. In these situations, our hearts always seem to be a step or more ahead of our heads. If we’re attracted to someone, we see them as the “platter” - the person who can offer us everything and more. It’s only when our head catches up to our heart that we begin to use our rationale to delve deeper, to uncover the things that create meaningful and lasting connections. Quite simply, no one can live up to the expectation of being something they’re not. Really, we shouldn’t have expectations at all. If anything, knowing exactly what we value and asserting our personal standards surrounding these values will help guide us away from the people who aren’t right for us, so we can start spending our time and energy on the ones that are. So, whatever happened to old “carrots”? Well, as much as I liked carrots, we just weren’t a match. Truth be told, I don’t really believe he thought I was the bees knees either. We will meet plenty of people in our lives who won’t, and it would be egotistic of us to presume they think of us otherwise. They might not even consider us to be the bees toes, the bees wings, or any other of the bees appendages. And that’s okay. Because really, we don’t want someone to admire us only for select parts of ourselves, especially not just what they see on the surface. We want them to see us as the bee, the whole bee, and nothing but the bee. After all, we haven’t been exposing our vulnerable selves to this dating minefield to settle for anything less, have we? It was the first time in a long time that I wasn’t reluctant to clamber out of bed before sunrise. Leaving Emme to her slumber, I dragged my overly-packed suitcase down to the Tube station at the end of her street. I manoeuvred through the growing crowds of early-commuters, carefully aiming to avoid rolling over innocent toes or create bruises with the sheer weight of my belongings. A few train changes later, I hopped off at Russell Square and navigated my way towards The Royal National Hotel where I’d be joining my fellow travellers. After making small-talk amongst ourselves, all 53 of us filed onto the coach and began our journey to Dover where we’d be taking the ferry over to France. My croissant-filled dreams were ever closer to coming true as soon as we crossed the English Channel and disembarked at the Port of Calais. We exchanged our ‘Hello’s’ for ‘Bonjour’s’ and other terribly pronounced French pleasantries as we continued on to our first destination: Paris. It was night by the time we arrived, and dinner at our accomodation was followed by an opportunity to explore the city. From a distance, we could see the Eiffel Tower twinkling like an oversized diamond, and despite thinking that I’d be underwhelmed by its existence, it was just as dazzling as you could imagine. Scaling its many stairs at 10:30pm not only got the old heart pumping, but allowed us to see the most breathtaking views of Paris. Feeling sufficiently awed by the vast expanse of beautiful buildings lined by perfectly parallel streets, we made our way back to the hotel a little after midnight in the hope that we could conserve some energy for the following day. By early morning, many of us were already up and watching the Eiffel Tower from afar as it emerged from the mist that engulfed it. We had but one full day to do as much as we could in the so-called city of love and we certainly weren’t going to let it go to waste. Next on the agenda was the Arc de Triomphe. Anyone who is familiar with the monument is well aware of its precarious location: smack-bang in the middle of the most ridiculous roundabout I have ever seen. Thanks to the attraction’s underground access way, us pedestrians can avoid dancing with death in order to see it up close. Enduring yet more stairs to see panoramic views of Paris was well worth the sweat (and near tears). From the Arc, we made our way down one of the most luxurious shopping streets in the world: the Champs-Élysées. The likes of Louis Vuitton and Chanel took residence here, and it felt as though we were getting to experience a teeny-tiny slither of what it was like to be living the life of someone in the upper percentile. As we approached the end of the colossally long road, a friend and I decided to jump in a tuk-tuk to take us to the Louvre where we could satisfy our artistic and cultural needs. As someone who studied art history at university, seeing legendary works such as the Mona Lisa, Winged Victory of Samothrace and Venus de Milo with my own eyes was absolutely surreal. I was also entranced by the countless royal possessions on display, from furniture, to clothes, to the Crown Jewels. Half the fun of visiting the museum was navigating its maze-like hallways to try and find the exit, which eventually landed us in the courtyard, transporting us to another place in time entirely. It would’ve been all too easy to spend countless hours at the Louvre, but we needed to continue our quest to see and do as many quintessentially Parisian things as possible. With a few hours to spare before dinner, a stroll down the Seine to Nôtre Dame seemed like a viable use of our remaining time. I loved seeing all the stalls set-up along the river filled with some fantastic second-hand books, local art and, of course, numerous souvenirs. Although we didn’t enter the famous cathedral at the end of our walk, we certainly took a moment to admire its distinct Gothic architecture before we were due to return to the hotel and partake in the evening’s festivities. We headed to the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre, where, yup, you guessed it, there were more stairs. Stairs aside, we were thoroughly entertained by various street performers before we were redirected down winding cobblestone paths to dinner. A delicious meal of escargot (who would’ve thought snails doused in garlic butter could taste so good) and duck a l’Orange, accompanied by copious amounts of red wine (seriously, where did all these bottles of wine come from) left me feeling satisfied and sufficiently tipsy. After dinner, we made our way through the red light district, passing many adult venues and sex stores along the way. Tonight we were being treated to a Cabaret show, with bottles of champagne on the side. And just as well - the number of exposed breasts and buttocks called for it! Regardless, it was an incredibly fun night of entertainment, full of alcohol-infused laughter. While many opted to continue dancing into the early hours of the morning, I felt as though my feet had outdone their step count for the day and returned to the hotel. Aside from giving this girl the best leg workout to date, I was also pleasantly surprised to find that my perception of this city wasn’t tainted by the images of it that I had seen before: it really was just as wonderful as I’d imagined. Being able to experience its beauty, culture and general atmosphere is something I won’t soon forget. Until next time, Paris. En route to the airport, I had one thought on my mind: please, for the love of God, don’t let me lose my luggage. Again. Of course, the knowledge that I would be London-bound in a matter of hours soon superseded this superficial concern. I was about to embark on my highly anticipated European adventure and I could hardly contain my excitement. One glass of red wine and an aioli sauce stain on my pants later, I was ready to bid my mother adieu at the departure zone and plant my rear-end firmly in the plane seat that was reserved for it. That “I’m on holiday” feeling doesn’t really kick in until you’re awkwardly bumping elbows with strangers on arm rests, while your knees are digging into the back of the chair in front of you (if not the person seated in it). Such comfort does the cost of economy class afford us, but I digress. A rejuvenating stop-over in Shanghai, coupled with back-to-back episodes of Outlander (the saucy scenes between Jamie and Claire in particular) made my journey to the other side of the world as bearable as it could possibly be. I was somewhat surprised to arrive at Heathrow and not be offered a cup-of-tea immediately after clearing immigration, but nevertheless, I was relieved to find my suitcase making its way around the baggage carrousel (my vendetta against the baggage handlers at Auckland Airport came to an end at this exact moment). In a post-flight state that can only be described as zombie-like, I called my cousin Emme who instructed me to buy a ticket for the Heathrow Express, and to meet her and her mum (my aunt, Steph) at Paddington Station, where they would hopefully assist me in becoming human once more. Sure enough, a round of hugs, a hot shower, and a decent feed of cheesy, room-service-grade gnocchi at Steph’s hotel sufficiently prepared me for my next encounter with London’s public transport system: the Tube. Let me tell you, running with your luggage in tow to the depths of the Underground and attempting to make it through the doors of the train before they close is an excellent cardio workout. One brisk, but sweaty ride later, we were at Emme’s flat, and after an exhaustingly long day, I was about 87% certain that a good night’s sleep was in order (the other 13% argued for snacks, but hey, majority rules - apologies to my steamed cheeseburger cravings). By some miracle, I was able to sleep through the night without a hitch, and wake up at the respectable hour of 8am. Using approximately three-quarters of my concealer to cover the diabolical post-travel bags under my eyes, I gussied myself up for a full day of London-based activities. First on the agenda was brunch with Emme and Steph at sketch, an 18th-century-style tea house with the most deliciously-decorated interior. We were seated in a room called the Glade, which made you feel like you were dining in a woodland forest - an absolute fairytale. I stuffed my face (graciously, I might add) with the traditional meal choice of poached eggs and smoked salmon, accompanied by a delightful glass of mango and passionfruit juice, before we headed to our next destination: Liberty. If you want to feel like someone who has money to spend, but you don’t necessarily have said money and would settle for knowing how the other half live, then a trip to Liberty is a must. The Tudor style department store is your one-stop-shop for all things luxurious. As we trawled through its numerous levels, I found myself adding item after item to my mental shopping cart, which was swiftly left at the door as we continued along Regent Street, on the lookout for more affordable wares. A girl can dream though, right? After indulging in a few touristy photos with one of London’s iconic, red phone booths, Emme headed back to uni, while Steph and I made our way down to Piccadilly Circus and hopped on the Tube to South Kensington. After a cup of coffee (essential for a weary traveller), and deterred by the queue forming outside the National History Museum, we opted for a visit to the Victoria and Albert Museum, directly across the road. Luckily for us, a fascinating collection of fashion through the ages was on display, providing a visual reminder as to just how much it has changed over the years (and just as well - you wouldn't see me miraculously morphing my body to fit into one of those teeny-tiny corsets, my serial snacking habits wouldn’t have a bar of it). In true English-style, we sat down at a local cafe for tea and scones before reconvening with Emme and her friends outside the Walkie Talkie building, fondly referred to by locals as the ‘Death Ray’ for its ability to melt cars and set fire to carpet simply by its reflective glare (pretty impressive if you ask me). Despite being dubbed one of worst buildings in the UK, the view from the top of its Sky Garden is anything but. If you’re wanting to see the sights of London from one vantage point, this is the place to go. From Tower Bridge, to St. Paul’s Cathedral (where Charles and Diana got hitched), to some of the other ridiculously named skyscrapers - the Shard, the Cheesegrater, and lest we forget, the Gherkin - that are iconic to this great city, you can see it all. After an overwhelmingly jam-packed day, it was here that the reality of my current situation began to sink in, and I was pretty darn chuffed to say the least. Stomachs growling, we made our way back to South Kensington where we stopped by Honest Burgers for dinner (for all you burger connoisseurs out there, I highly recommend). After saying our goodbyes (for now) to Steph, Emme and I went back to her flat to watch Trainwreck; some low-key, mindless movie watching was essential after the day we had had! I reorganised my bags before bed, knowing that I would be departing London early the next morning to cross the English Channel into France, where the next phase of my adventure would begin. It was hard to believe that by this time the following night, I’d be in Paris. With that lovely thought in mind, I hopped into bed, closed my eyes, and fell asleep, dreaming of croissants. I've been rekindling my relationship with books recently. Historically, we've always been a pretty solid pair, but as I was finding my way through life (navigating the myriad of responsibilities and general feeling of exhaustion that comes with being an adult), I realised that I wasn't making time to read, let alone tend to my other interests. Without them, I'd probably lose my sanity (if I haven’t already). There's just something about getting stuck into a good book that allows you to escape the day-to-day monotony of routine and transport yourself to a different world, even if only for a moment.
After finishing The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I thought I'd delve into something a little more light-hearted in an attempt to recover from the near post-traumatic stress experienced from a seriously psychological read. So, I jumped onto my favourite online book store, The Book Depository, widely known as the equivalent of crack for bookworms, to get my fix. Three weeks later, I had four brand-spanking-new books on my doorstep (this was rather timely, as I'd had a shitter of a day dealing with someone who declared I had an attitude problem, which was ironic considering that I thought he was an absolute twat). After pouring myself a cup of tea, I decided to open the pages of book número uno to help me unwind. I hadn't the foggiest idea what the book was about, but it was entitled The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck, and that was reason enough to add it to my cart in the first place. I couldn't think of a more perfect sentiment to satisfy my sarcastic mind, and naturally, as someone who is often burdened by unnecessary stress (classic mental-state of a wannabe over-achiever), I wanted to know how I could give less fucks, if you will. I won't bore you with a cover to cover summary of what the book entails (that's what Wikipedia is for), however, I will tell you about the ways in which this witty wee gem has enlightened me, and how I've come to apply its methodology of being "sorry, not sorry" to my life. Growing up, I was always conscious of the fact that I cared too much about how I was perceived by others. Fortunately, I learnt quickly that not everyone is an over-analytical freak like myself, and that generally, whatever assumptions I'd made about people's opinions had been fabricated by the inner-workings of my (probably warped) mind. Do you know how much of a waste of energy that is? I'll tell you, it's huuuge (and to think, I could've been spending that time more productively, watching an entire TV series, or better yet, catching a few extra hours sleep). I guess it eventually dawned on me that there are far more important things to be concerned about in life than what other people think about how you choose to live yours. If anything, we just need to be selective about what it is that we deem important, without worrying about whether or not we'll be pleasing others in the process. Something happened last month that, for me, really exemplified this perspective. One of my brother's friends passed away unexpectedly in his sleep, leaving those both directly and indirectly connected to him with an enduring reminder of the fragility of life. While the book doesn't touch on the subject of death, knowing that our time on this earth is limited does relate to the concept of deciding what's worth caring about in our lives and what isn't. The phrase “life’s too short” is often found in quotes that are designed to inspire us to enjoy our existence without regrets. Although we find them plastered on cheesy, framed prints, or posted by approximately 87% of 13-18 year olds on Facebook, the simple set of words state an obvious yet overlooked truth: if we aren’t promised a tomorrow, then why aren’t we living for today? We're all guilty of worrying about what we’re conditioned to believe are the big matters in life: what we're going to study (should we decide to study at all), what we'll do for a living, what kind of car we'll drive, what house we'll buy (or rack up a mortgage for). You catch my drift; the list is endless. I’m not suggesting that these things aren’t worth thinking about or planning for. Naturally, we all have our hopes and dreams. As beings who crave existential happiness, we will do everything we are humanly capable of to create desirable futures for ourselves, respectively. Somewhere in the process of making those decisions (whether carefully considered or spontaneous) that shape the course of our lives, however, we tend to momentarily lose sight of what the bread and butter of our happiness is. As far as I’m concerned, none of the above compares to the fortune of good health, the love given to and received from family and friends, and the simple fact that we are alive. Through recent challenges and tragedies, and with the help of some silly book I bought on a whim, I’ve been able to regain my perspective on life that was temporarily overshadowed by matters that, well, simply don’t matter. To put it plainly, I want to live knowing that even if I took my last breath tomorrow, I'd be happy with where I was, what I was doing and who I am. As far as “giving a fuck” is concerned, well, you are entitled to direct yours in any which way you please. Be firm in what you consider to be important in your life, all while being you, truly and unapologetically (so long as you aren’t being an asshole). If I’ve learnt anything, it’s that you really shouldn’t sweat the small stuff; there will always be bigger fish to fry. Enjoy each day, and take some time to do the things you love, for you, even if it’s just drinking a cup of tea with a good book in hand. I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to writing. I'll start a sentence, and just as swiftly, I'll erase it. I attempt to approach an idea from a different angle by changing my choice of words only to find myself becoming increasingly frustrated when I read them back. I end up tossing my journal aside or slamming my laptop shut simply because the words won't flow (largely due to the fact that I agonisingly scrutinise every detail of what I've written). This first paragraph alone has been altered more times than I'd willingly admit. As far as my writing is concerned, it's never quite as good as I want it to be; it's never perfect.
In my twenty-three years, I've come to understand that this concept of 'perfection' is somewhat of a fantasy. While we may be consciously aware of its non-existence, it's something we continue to strive for. Even if the perfect life is unattainable, we'll make damn sure that we get as close to it as humanly possible. In doing so, we begin to develop ideas of what an ideal life is, respectively. Our definitions are complemented by our desires and dreams, creating a form of perfection that is entirely unique to us. My nit-picking certainly doesn't stop with my writing; I critique and analyse just about everything else I do too. It's no easy feat satisfying an overactive and ambitious mind. A series of trials (and errors), however, have helped me to establish the foundations for what I do want in life and what I hope for myself. With each experience, I feel as though I'm closer to uncovering my version of happiness that hasn't necessarily been as easy to find as supposed societal norms might suggest. I've wondered about how to best stage the topic I'm about to discuss, because it's not one that I can easily sum up in a few words (to be fair, it's not even a singular idea). I thought about breaking it up into more digestible chunks, but the individual pieces are so intertwined, it would seem unnatural to divide them. In this post, I will gloss over some of the key components of my life (a comprehensive account would require me to publish a novel), and attempt to explain how perfectly imperfect each of them are. I invite you to make yourself a cup of tea (or pour yourself a generous glass of wine - go on, you deserve it) and cosy up, because I'm about to embark on a series of mini-stories that will reveal some of my innermost thoughts. I can't promise that I'm going to stay on track, nor can I guarantee that I'm going to come full circle with this discussion. I'm not even sure if I'm going to draw any meaningful conclusions from my ramblings (sorry in advance). All I hope is that somewhere within them, you might be able to find a part of yourself. Chapter One: Education During my years at school, I constantly imagined what I'd be doing as an adult. Geography class (and extra-curricular activity playing the Sims) inspired thoughts of becoming a city planner. Trawling around the career department, however, did little to encourage this aspiration further. I remember feeling overwhelmed by the university prospectuses presented to me and the number of options for study outlined in each of them. Naturally, I was a little scared of making the wrong choice. What if I hated city planning, then what would I do? When push came to shove, I followed my gut instinct (something that hasn't failed me yet). I didn't know much about what the world had to offer, but I was a wordsmith who loved English and all it encompassed. University certainly wasn't my only option but my desire for continued learning certainly steered me in the direction of higher education. I applied for a Bachelor of Arts and a Bachelor of Communications. Accepted into both, I selected the one that I thought best reflected my thirst for knowledge and need for diversity. With the power to pick and choose my subjects, the Arts degree was easily my top choice. Through the course of my studies, I was able create an educational experience that was uniquely my own. My time at university flew by, and soon enough, I was donning my graduation get-up and walking across a stage in front of thousands to collect that hard-earned piece of paper. Two years later, I'm still filled with elation and pride when I reflect on that moment. Sure, I sometimes wonder if I should've studied something that offered me a more direct outcome, or secured some sort of career path. An Arts degree doesn't exactly set you up for a specific job, but then again, I find it hard to imagine myself sticking to one thing, forever. I've never really viewed myself as a one-trick pony. I think I'm more like a racehorse that's ready to bolt out of the next open gate and go for gold. Even though Arts students have historically received a bit of stick for choosing a less traditional path, not one part of me regrets studying English, or any other subject I took at university for that matter (would you believe me if I told you I took Politics for a semester?). I didn't want to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer. I couldn't imagine studying something that might dictate my future. If anything, the flexible nature of my degree has opened my mind to the vast range of opportunities available to me through the skills that I've developed. Perhaps I'll become an English teacher and go on to make a difference in the education of others. Maybe I'll be a travel writer, trotting the globe and publishing my experiences for all and sundry to read. I might find myself working in public relations where I'll be able to channel my abilities as a communications professional. Who knows, I could even start my own business (and you can be sure that I already have an idea or two for this). Whether or not further education is involved in my journey, I'm more driven than ever to find my 'dream job.' And when I do, I'll kick-ass at it. Chapter Two: Work I started working when I was sixteen. My dad helped me to get a job at a local restaurant. Earning minimum wage, I spent my evenings after school serving drinks, clearing plates, scrubbing tables, and every once in a while, I'd experience the joy of cleaning up some stranger's vomit (living the dream). It was typical 'first job' material, and most of the time, I loathed it. I was envious of my friends who worked in retail, enjoying the perks of discounted clothing, and not coming home smelling like food. Despite this, I found a silver-lining in hospitality. The shifts were busy and I rarely found myself feeling bored or unchallenged. At the end of the day, I was earning an income and my savings were blowing up (thanks to my parents who had control over my account at the time). Even when I finished school and started university, I vowed to continue working in order to gain a further sense of what it meant to be financially independent. Over the years, I've had a number of jobs. I was a waitress at a Mexican restaurant, a residential cleaner, and an English tutor for primary and secondary school students. Through each experience, I established connections with people, gained skills, and learnt something new about myself in the process. No matter what I found myself doing (whether I enjoyed it or not), I was consistently reminded of the things I was able to achieve simply from being employed. So often I've heard the phrase "don't live to work, but work to live." A growing awareness of this philosophy has allowed me to find contentment in any job I've worked it, even if it's classified as dead-end or temporary. There's no way in hell that I would've been seen gallivanting around Mexico last year if I hadn't been working to save my ass off. While I'm well aware that my current job isn't my dream gig, I'm grateful for the work-life balance that it has offered. There are worse things in life than finishing work by 3pm or being surrounded cute animals all day. Even on the days that aren't so great, the smallest things can make the biggest difference. Seeing clients light up when I recognise them, or having someone express gratitude when I offer advice or empathy is enough to make me feel as though my job is important. I'm not worried about what I'll end up doing next, so long as I feel that my work is valuable and I'm able to continue doing the things I love in my own time as a result. Chapter Three: Dating I wasn't all that fussed about boys as a teen. Sometimes it felt like every girl was obsessed with them except me. Dating just wasn't something I was into. I tried on a couple of occasions, but all attempts seemed foreign and I would resort to using the compassionately worded alternative of "yeah, nah" to bring whatever situation I found myself in to an end. University was a bit of a different ball game. Having come from an all-girls school meant that I was more interested in being involved with the opposite sex than ever before. With new-found confidence, I indulged in a few short-lived romances before I met my then-boyfriend. Unfortunately, our relationship ended in similar fashion to the Titanic (because it was an absolute disaster). The image of the person I was so madly in love with was tarnished, and soon enough, I was single and back to the old drawing board. I threw myself back into the dating pool after my break-up to continue on with my quest for love (or at least to find a body to spoon). Such varied dating experiences provided invaluable knowledge, and in many respects, affirmed what qualities I'm seeking for in my 'special someone.' In saying that, I don't think it's wise to classify your type, or stick strictly to your mental checklist when considering your ideal partner. If recent experiences have taught me anything, it's that love can be found in the most unlikely of places with someone you least expect. My friends would probably say that I'm not one to fall in love quickly. While I find the idea of being swept off my feet rather charming, the truth is, it's not all that simple. Attraction is essential to sparking initial interest, of course, but it certainly takes more than that to win me over. The idea of commitment isn't an issue, nor am I longer afraid of being vulnerable. If anything, it's the allowance of time that's an obstacle. I simply want to get to know the person I'm with before deciding whether or not I see them as a part of my future. I mean, if you like someone enough and see a great deal of potential in them, then what's the rush to dive head-first into a relationship? Good things take time, right? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being single. I relish in the fact that I can just be myself without trying to please anyone. Having said that, I'm not closed off to the idea of exploring the possibilities that dating offers either. In fact, I think it'd be great to have someone to join me on my adventures. Anything from taking a weekend road trip (car singing and dancing en route included), to going on a nature hike, or even just cooking dinner and watching TV. Whoever this person is, they're going to have to be pretty exceptional to change my current status. Chapter Four: Family and Friends If you're still reading, thanks for hanging in there. I'll keep this next section short and sweet, because if there's one thing I can't fault in my life, it's all the wonderful people I'm surrounded by. I feel incredibly blessed to come from a stable family. I'm aware that that's not necessarily the case for everyone, especially in this modern age. The love from my parents and younger brother is unconditional and I couldn't ask for a better support network. Over the years, friends have come and gone. As you grow up, everyone embarks on a new journey that takes them in different directions. I couldn't even tell you what some of my former BFF's are doing now (or where they are for that matter). Some of my closest friends from school are still around. Even if I don't get to see them as often as I'd like to, whenever we do get the chance to catch up, it's as if no time has passed at all. A part of me feels at home in their presence. As an adult, you become more selective about the people you associate with, and inevitably, you end up forming connections with those who add value to your life. My friends are some of the best people I know (no bias). They're the ones who I feel comfortable confiding in, who know my dreams and fears, and they're also a hell of a lot of fun to be around. We've enjoyed some wild adventures together, but equally, we can just sit down together with a glass of wine and be content in each other's company. It's friendship in it's purest form. I couldn't have rounded off this post without mentioning these great humans. After all, they're the ones who have helped me to navigate the challenges posed above. To Conclude: I'm not exactly sure what point, or points I've been trying to get across in this blog. I guess I'm just over putting pressure on myself to produce posts that are consistently articulate and profound that I wanted to give my brain a break and let my fingers do the talking for a change. No matter how much time and energy we put into something, no matter how passionate we are about it, it's never going to be entirely perfect. And that's okay, because it's not meant to be. I often reflect on aspects of my life and wonder where I might be if I had done things differently. What would I have studied? Where would I be working? Who could I be dating? The truth is, we're the writers of our own stories, and our choices will play a large part in determining what happens in each of the chapters. No matter how imperfect the journey might seem, we need to have faith that the decisions we make are the right ones, and that eventually, we'll end up right where we're supposed to be, happily. Four months into 2017 and the not-so-new year has already seen its fair share of beginnings and ends, twists and turns. I’ve dealt with heartache, stepped into a gym for the first time (gasp), booked a trip to Europe, and watched friends and family embark on new journeys, leaving me to ponder what the future might bring for them and me. Thinking ahead has also encouraged me to reflect on what has already happened so far and how certain events have lead me to be where I am at this exact moment.
In March I left behind my beloved flat in Orakei which had been my home for six months. A week or so before moving day, I removed every personal detail that I had added to my room when I originally moved in. The built-in shelves that were filled with some of my favourite books, knick-knacks and travel souvenirs became a practical solution to storing boxes that contained the contents of my life. With each item I packed away, my room started looking less and less like mine, and exemplified how I felt about what was happening: strangely empty. I had taken the last room available when I moved in. I couldn't complain; it was my favourite one in the house, with peachy-pink wallpaper and an endless supply of sunlight streaming through the window. While I was in the process of decorating, I decided to string some fairy-lights above my bed (just like every other 20-something female). I kind of liked the idea of falling asleep with these teeny-tiny bulbs twinkling above my head; maybe some part of me hoped they would inspire me to dream. Whenever I looked up, it felt like I was gazing upon a sky full of stars. Returning to my room and unwinding after a long day became something to look forward to. For a while, some of my nights were spent curled up next to my then special someone after binging on Netflix and laughing to the point of exhaustion. Eventually, the extra space in my bed that was once filled became vacant. In sharp contrast, my room was engulfed by silence at night and I was left to mull over my thoughts until my eyes grew tired. This "me time" was something I came to value while I was flatting. Too often have I underestimated the power of having a moment that is mine and mine alone. When I had the house to myself, I could turn up my music as loud as I wanted and dance around like mad, or write and allow my thoughts to transpire on paper without disruption. I like socialising with friends as much as the next person, but I sure cherish those moments of solace to think, plan and dream, freely. There are a number of little things that I miss about my flat. I miss dangling my legs out of my window while sitting comfortably on the wide ledge reading a book, talking on the phone for hours with friends, or simply watching the tui's rustle around in the fruit trees. I miss our garish kitchen with the orange bench top that was often cluttered with dirty dishes and constantly being invaded by an oversized puppy scavenging for morsels. I miss seeing the view along Tamaki Drive on the drive home from a stressful day on a sunny afternoon. Most of all, I miss coming back to a home where I'm surrounded by friends and having a place that really feels like my own. In such a short space of time that house and the experience of flatting in its entirety facilitated the creation of countless memories. It was a place where I laughed with friends, sought sanctuary when I felt sad or overwhelmed and learnt all sorts of things that won't soon be forgotten. After all, it wasn't always easy living with three other people and a growing German Shepherd puppy while attempting to assume the role of a fully-capable, independent young adult. It's pretty remarkable how attached we become to the little things that to anyone else would otherwise be regarded as ordinary. That being said, it doesn’t make it much easier to say goodbye to them. No matter how much you’re able to prepare, endings, whatever the situation may be, can be daunting. Feelings of nostalgia creep in making you wish you could stop time, just so you can hold onto those moments for a bit longer. We then let go of what is familiar, what is comfortable, in order to delve into our next chapter, the details of which at that point in time are largely unknown. It's perfectly normal to feel nostalgic. In fact, I think it's something we should embrace when reflecting on the past, for it is the knowledge of our experiences that prepare us for our next venture. I’ve never thought of change negatively. I rarely find myself living in the past; I try to focus on what's current and imagine the possibilities that only the act of looking towards the future bring. How can we move ahead in life if we keep wishing we were in a different time and place that has already passed by? I feel confident that where I am now is where I'm meant to be, currently. Although I can't say that I know what's next with absolute certainty, I do trust that the decisions I've made, and the things that have happened so far have brought me here for a reason. With each day that passes, I'm slowly starting to see the bigger picture that is being constructed in the puzzle that is my life. Not knowing exactly what the next piece will reveal doesn't concern me; it only adds to the excitement and anticipation of what's to come. |
B is:A 26-year-old tea drinking writer of words trying to find her place in the world.
Archives
April 2020
|