Sheridan’s Blog

The Masters of the universe have conspired. The branch of the dance school I attend has broken off from the school and become a school all of its own. To those in the know, this has implications, probably more good than bad (but it does take the fun out). Suffice to say this round has been won by Team Current Boyfriend.

On my recent visit to the Melbourne International Airport, I was struck by many bizarre observations. Some of which I will now share.

The Arrivals Hall

This is pretty much the only place you get to go if you haven’t been the one on the plane. And it’s pretty bleak. You turn up, often after walking from a neighbouring suburb and unsure how to find your car upon your return. All the while you’re repeating in your head – ‘L1, yellow, near the Avis desk, L1, L1, L1!’ And then when you get close to the terminal, suddenly hundreds of signs start to seduce you. You try to look away, all the while saying to yourself – L1 yellow.
Security and the seemingly world-wide notion of ‘terror’ has transformed airports. So unless you’re the one actually getting on or off the plane, you don’t get any cool shops. Only the coffee/snack places. And might I comment on the special deal at one such place:

‘Coffee and a muffin for $8.50′

WHAT A STEAL!!! I’ll have 3! When I read this, I nearly fell over (again). I can’t even imagine what size coffee and muffin I would expect for $8.50, but it would be in the coronary-causing ball-park. It’s not much fun waiting to meet people at the airport. You stand there, staring at the arrivals board, mentally calculating how long it might take 3-8 plane-loads of people to get through customs/security/etc, before they emerge. You start conversing with fellow waiters – ‘How long have you been here?’, ‘Which plane are you waiting on?’ And then you can start to make assumptions, such as ‘There’s the air hostesses, so that’ll be the end of the Emirates deboarding’, and so on. I like to watch the people waiting with flowers. Are they waiting for their partner? Their mother? Kylie? I’d like to stay around and see how it all pans out for them. They’ve bought the flowers – some consideration, time and money has gone into it all. (Note to boyfriend – flowers at airport, indeed at any time will always be well received.) I guess waiting’s the same no matter where you do it. There seems to always be this feeling that the person you’re waiting on is just relaxing, not rushing – just kicking back with a magazine in the Qantas lounge or something; perhaps sipping a Martini with someone they met on the flight. Meanwhile, you’re standing on a cold, unrelenting concrete floor staring at the back of someone’s head. The most interesting thing to happen is when the arrivals board clicks over and all the letters and numbers change. Magic.

And it’s not much better coming the other way. You can’t wait to get out. Your mouth feels like foam. You’ve been on a plane for 3 days and you just want to be able to walk without the shackles of luggage or backpack, and without someone asking you to take off your shoes so they can swab your feet for drugs or something. When they let you off the plane, it’s a nice walk to the luggage carousel, where there always seem to be small children trying to ride on it. From where do they get their energy? I’ve never really had to deal with security since I look harmless enough, so queuing up for customs is the only real formality on leaving the airport. And of course, no one looks like their passport photo or remembers where they have been or where they are now or when they are leaving. Sometimes it is difficult not to be a smart-arse, but when you’re on holidays (especially extended varieties), you don’t recall exactly which day you arrived. It’s a job to remember what day of the week it is.
Then they put all these shops there. Good shops, where things seem cheaper but really are not. They capitalise on the fragile state of mind.
The most traumatic part is that you don’t really notice you’re walking out into the general public area until it’s too late. And you can’t turn around and go back in – the doors only go one way, and once you’re out, you’re out. They should really put bigger, more meaningful signs there (OUTSIDE WORLD AHEAD – CHECK HAIR AND MAKE-UP), just in case you’re not ready yet, and you could sit and prepare yourself before going out. They should also put bathrooms right there, so you can remove any pieces of cheese that may be stuck to your face. But it’s not like that. You walk through the door and there you are, momentarily confronted by one of your worst nightmares (or favourite fantasies, depending on personal preference) – hundreds of people staring at you. You can never see the person/people waiting for you, but you can hardly stand there glaring into the crowd, can you? So you move on. I’d really love to see someone come through those doors and then just drop their bags and stand there, shielding their eyes from the glare of the lights, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. It’d be even better if they shouted out ‘Dave? DAVE?? You here, mate? DAVE??’ And then, ‘Yeah mate – on the left’. Then, ‘Your left or my left?’ And so on. Why does no one do this? I’m doing it next time.

I fell over (insert sad face here).

I got attacked by leaves this morning. Although the sun shone, it was a blustery walk from the front door to the car for me. It would have been preferable for leaves to attack right there, in the relative privacy of the driveway. But it never happens like that, does it? It likes to wait until you’re in the middle of a major 4-lane arterial, and then whip up a massive gust of wind which causes your coat to go up around your head and your bags to be flapping about and your face to schrinch up like a 3 year-old denied a Mars bar. I am still picking bits of tree and leaves out of my hair and clothing. I bet it made someone’s day (but probably not the guy who was walking in front of me and got much the same treatment). We shared a laugh, mainly at each other’s hair after the onslaught.

Infant crocodiles flock to the nearest female in the pond when faced with danger – even if she’s not their mother. Crikey!

In unrelated news, I am making lasagne and washing my clothes. I have a cold, which has resulted in a serious brain-snap, seeing me miss three appointments I made and then either forgot about or couldn’t compute a logical way to get to them. I also cancelled my personal training session because I can’t bear to face it this week. But when my dance teacher cancelled on me, I booked two classes to make up for the lost one. I may even book a third.

Work is the same as it is every other day. I’m thinking seriously about returning to uni next year. The area of study is yet to be set in concrete, but chances are it’ll be an allied health division. I’m of two minds about the whole notion at present – do I really want another 3-4 years of uni? I recall the last essay I wrote, and the feeling of elation that I would never have to write one again. Can I actually still write? Do I want the feeling of having to read boring articles and then synthesising them and making some kind of point (a point I have to make up on my own?) Isn’t there enough of that kind of thing going on in my everyday life as it is? But then again, I will get to have that feeling of elation when I hand in my final piece of work…

I also have to consider where my life might be in 3-4 years: will I be in a position to begin a new career then? That essentially means having children won’t really be an option for me (I can’t do everything at once). By the time I’m finished and go out into the workforce for a few years, I’ll be too old to have kids. But if I don’t go back to uni, does that mean I’m going to be a receptionist forever? I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

I’m going back to watch the crocodile show.

The personal trainer from hell put me through my paces again this morning. After rising around 5am, I am beginning to realise I might not be a morning person after all. I definitely wasn’t very ‘morning’ when asked to lift weights at 7am. And the last thing I want to hear when I’m straining to lift a measly 5kg up over my head for the 50th time is: ‘Ooohhh, your heart’s racing…’ WELL OF COURSE IT IS, YOU MORON. I’m unfit and it’s 7 in the morning and I haven’t eaten and I’m tired. Back off.
I was so overcome with lethargy that I just left straight away after the session. Didn’t stay at the gym (even though I had 2 hours to spare before work), didn’t get changed, didn’t even take a shower. I feared that the slight resistance felt from the water hitting my body might actually cause me to die.
So I went shopping.

After a lengthy hiatus from dancing, last night (after gruelling gym embarrassment) I swept off to the first of what will hopefully be many dance classes. My temporary-ish teacher, debonair and cad-like at the same time, was clad in a suit, the sales of which I’m certain have since increased tenfold.
What a wonderful sensation it is to be admired for something that you’re actually pretty average at. I will never tire of it. And it’s surprising to see that my muscles have retained the ability to move in the right way (for the most part). It’s very exciting stuff.
I look forward to the next competition.

I may be getting old. It occurred to me today that I ran around all weekend and never really spent any time with my boyfriend. Granted we were both physically and geographically in close proximity, but in proper, psychological terms, we spend zero time together. I’d almost go as far as saying we inadvertently avoided each other, without even meaning to (well I certainly didn’t mean to). I think it’s just called ‘being busy’. So I look forward to a few weeks with just Zac the dog to keep me company. And Tim when he’s around. I’m empty of time at the moment and it’s only Monday.
So I dragged myself off to work at a very unreasonable hour. I performed tasks (poorly). Then I left early to go to meet up with my personal trainer person at the gym. It was an experience that was simultaneously exhilarating and humiliating. And I did all the right things in preparation as well (I ate lunch). After a very civil chat, we got to the exercise part of the appointment, where I was forced to perform sit-ups and push ups. That part went badly and I have no more to say about that. Then came the cardio section which was marginally better. And then the never-ending lunges up and down the full length of the gym, in full view of all and sundry, shortly followed by the dead-lifts. I must say that I did excel quite near the end there. I felt so enlivened by the invigorating effects of exercise that I thought I’d spend half an hour or so ploughing away on one of the machines. Then I had to head off, but as I opened my locker and prepared for a nice shower, a ghastly chain events took place. It happened as I tried to carry too many objects towards the showers: I dropped my knickers (clean ones, not the ones I was wearing, which were encrusted with sweat from incessant lunging). I bent down to pick them up and realised my error too late. The pain shot through my hamstrings at lightning speed, and the underwear stayed on the floor, taunting me from it’s low-lying position. Now, I’m not sure about anyone else, but I’m not all that keen on having my Reg Grundies haphazardly strewn about a public place, even if they’re clean (but thank the Lord above they were…) I had to make a decision as gym peak hour was kicking in – to push through the pain and just pick them up, or to kick them across the floor all the way to the shower, resulting in a nasty tinea infection (or something much, much worse). Calling upon my last physical resource, I bent down and retrieved said underpants and hobbled off to the shower, where I huddled in the cubicle moaning for a good ten minutes.

Do you ever feel like you’ve put in a whole lot of effort and no one even recognises it? I’m sure everybody (or the one person who may read this) is/are nodding their heads. So, in the spirit of community, I wish to say that I AM NOTICING EFFORT APPLIED BY OTHERS. And I am appreciating it. It is not overlooked by me. And as of today, I have no effort left to apply (too much gym has perhaps taken it out of me. And I ate KFC last night, which has possibly flooded my brain with a potent chemical shit-storm).
Now I have to go to stupid yoga tonight to try to harvest some good vibes from somewhere.

After only 2 days at the gym I can barely move. It is a consistent effort I have to apply to type each keystroke. And to make matters just that small bit worse, I got distracted this morning and got off at the wrong tram stop and had to walk in the blinding downpour to the right place. I don’t even know what I got distracted by. I am very tired, and very glad I didn’t get up to go back to the gym when my alarm sounded at 5am this morning. Althought the dreams I had in that extra hour and a half of sleep were so absolutely full of bollocks that I almost wish I had gotten up.
It’s been a day in which so little has been achieved. In fact, I feel like I may have actually un-done things. And it’s not just me – almost everyone at work seems to have some kind of ailment at the moment. Someone calls in sick pretty much every day (but we work in hospitals, so it’s not unheard of), and my boss has a nasty case of racoon eyes (allegedly from a dodgy brand of mascara), so she’s avoiding facing the patients, since we work in an opthalmologist practice. It would hardly be good for business. Everyone else, including me, has picked up eye hypochondria. If you spend all day typing about retinal detachment, sometimes you have to wonder if you might actually have it. (Do I? What is it, exactly?)

I’m going home soon (if I can) and if my shoes of death don’t cut my feet up and fill up with blood on the way.