The Feel-lympics

I feel feelings

I feel them all the time

I feel them with my heart and I feel them with my mind

Hey!

- A poem by Lizzyish

Sometimes blogging can be a bit of a walk down Special Snowflake Lane. It’s like, ‘here are the ways in which I am special and different to you, they are so special, I put them on the Internet’. I know other people feel feelings; I’m not trying to imply I feel more or bigger feelings than you. But I know, from observable evidence, that most people don’t get weepy while watching the Olympic Opening Ceremony. 

I am a sucker for spectacle. It’s probably much cooler to watch big events like the Opening Ceremony or the Doctor Who Symphonic Spectacular or… you know… my little sister’s choir performance at the fete and not get all teary. But I’m not cool. I think we can all agree that my coolness exists only in the minds of my own imaginary childhood friends.

We watched the Olympic Opening Ceremony last night. We don’t get Channel 9 because our aerial is a pile of poo, so we watched it on my laptop many hours after the event. I already knew that the Queen was going to parachute in, that there were going to be smoke stacks that looked like Mordor, that sadly the 10^th Doctor did not get to light the flame and that motherflippin VOLDERMORT was going to be there.  Some of it was cheesy, lots of it was slow and boring, and there was a real emphasis on bad things (a whole segment on DEATH has got to be the foremost one here) but I still welled up. I welled up right at the start, when that small child mimed Jerusalem, and it just got worse from there. Every time I tried to regain my composure, something else dramatic would happen, and I’d be trying to hide my face from Boyfriend again.

I think it’s the music that does it, really. I don’t really give a shit about the importance of the industrial revolution. Not more than anybody else who really loves electricity and their laptop does. I’m not British. I’m descended from British people (I’ve got everything except Scottish in me I think) and I’ve been to England once, but I don’t have any particular fondness in my heart for the British Isles. And yet still, the music swells and the drums go bang and I care. Oh yes I care. And my heart seems to fill up with emotion and feels and pour out of my eyes.

I cry in movies too. Pretty much all the movies. Anything with a remotely sad moment and I’m gone. For those people who say, “I never cry in movies”, let me just tell you, it’s a really strange sensation. Because the emotions aren’t yours. You aren’t weeping for the death of a loved one, you’re weeping for the death of a fictional character you’ve spent less than 2 hours getting to know. And yet, for that fleeting moment, you are completely wrapped up in that emotion. And it feels great, but also awful.

I think my absolutely most ridiculous weeping over spectacle moment has to be the aforementioned Doctor Who Symphonic Spectacular in Melbourne. I’d gone with a largeish group of people. We walked across half of Melbourne to get to the convention centre. And the whole walk, my excitement was mounting, but also a growing doubt. I own the DVD with the “Doctor Who at the Proms” special feature, and I’d watched it twice, and I suspected this was going to be almost the exact same thing minus the most famous actors. As we walked I kept thinking, “it’s going to be good, but not that great, don’t get too excited all you’ll be disappointed.”

And then we got there. And the foyers were completely full of Doctors and Roses and Marthas and Amys. There were TARDISes and sonics, masks and camera flashes. The excitement was palpable, but the foyers were giant, so by the time we got to our door there were only a couple of minutes to spare before the start time. The lights went down just as we sat in our seats. A Judoon told us over the PA to turn our mobiles off, and then suddenly a woman started singing Amy’s theme and I burst into tears. Just like that. Or it was less “bursting into tears” and more “letting out a constricted sob”. I just wasn’t ready, not prepared for it, and it was so beautiful. I think I proceeded to sob or get weepy 7 or 8 more times during the performance.

So anyway, it’s probably for the best that I can’t get the Olympics on my TV, because otherwise I’d be sobbing every day over every amazing Olympian who wins a race or gets a goal. Especially because Channel 9 will undoubtedly replay the good bits to dramatic music every hour. 

Five years

Yar. Here be cheese. 

What have you done in the last 5 years? Have you finished school? Uni? Maybe you’ve started a new degree or found a new job. How many jobs have you had? I’ve had 7. But then, I do get bored pretty easily.

5 years is both a long time and no time at all. People make 5-year plans because they are achievable. You can make reasonable goals, but they still feel significant. Because heck, 5 years! You can do so much in 5 years, right?

This blog is dedicated to the last 5 years. 5 years ago today, Boyfriend and I sat on a couch at a party and decided that the thing it was that we were doing was probably actually dating and that was cool with us. We fist bumped and then went back to the party.  In 5 years we have been to lots more parties, we’ve worked on shows together, and we’ve accidentally worn the same coloured shirt in public too many times. We’ve celebrated birthdays and Christmases, attended family events and gone to New Zealand together. I’ve finished a degree, and Boyfriend has gone back to uni and then finished a diploma to become a teacher.

But it’s not really what we’ve done in 5 years that matters, not when we’re getting all sentimental like this, no. It’s that we’ve done it together. We’ve done fun stuff and boring stuff and big stuff and small stuff. We’ve gotten excited about TV shows and movies together and we’ve tried to take an interest in each other’s interests (with varying degrees of success).

We’ve made decisions together and taken big scary risks together. In the last 5 years we’ve gone from two people who met in the student theatre company to a couple who decided to move to the country. Somewhere in there we started calling each other “partner” rather than “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”. Though, to outweigh the corniness of this somewhat, I for one, am usually thinking “howdy, partner” whenever I do that.

I didn’t always understand what people meant when they said relationships were hard work. “Hard work?” I thought, “they shouldn’t be work they should be awesome”. But they take work to make them awesome. But just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s not good (that’s what she said?) You have somebody else’s heart in your possession, and they have yours. You have to be careful, and considerate, you have to look after that heart and they have to look after yours.

 So 5 years. It’s not much, and yet it’s very much. Here’s to 5, 10, 15, many more.

I guess I don’t get bored THAT easily. 

Twenty-Four

Damn that's a big number

24 – the number of hours in a day

24 – the number of episodes per season of some TV shows

24 – the number of times I have watched some TV shows

24 – the amount of eggs 12 chickens can produce in 2 days

24 – the opposite of the meaning of life

24 – a TV show about time, I assume

24 – an ABC news channel that is good

24  – my, that’s a lot of children you have madam

24 – the age Boyfriend was on the first birthday of his we celebrated together. We went to movieworld.

24 – the age lots of my friends have been already

24 – the age my mum was when I was 2

24 – the age at which you have to stop claiming early-twenties

24 – the age I will be tomorrow.

For some reason, 24 is the first birthday I have dreaded. I don't know why, but it makes me feel old. It doesn’t make any sense of course. I don’t think other people who are 24 are old. And I certainly don’t think older people are ANCIENT. Boyfriend, for example, is 28. That seems totally fine to me. (30, on the other hand… When he’s 30 I’m going to have to drop him like a warm legume. Honestly, who turns THIRTY?!)

It’s not one of those, “I should have done more/something else by now things, but it somehow seems like an age I just can’t be. Twenty-four! That’s the age of a grown up person. Isn’t it? Am I a grown up person? If so, I have been seriously misguided about grown up people; who they are, what they do and how they function.

So what to do with this dread and fear of a birthday? Should I pretend to be 23 for a few more years? Should I moisturise my face with a cream that fights SEVEN signs of aging? What even are the seven signs of ageing? Is one of them fear? Is another incontinence? Damn that’s some good cream. No. I think what I need to do is find some good things about being 24.

So...

It’s an even number, appealing to my love of even numbers

It’s a multiple of 8, appealing to my love of the number 8

It makes me twice the age of one of my siblings, a joy I won’t experience again until I’m 30

I’m still in the 18-24 bracket on surveys

I can say “20-something” and not feel like a douche (maybe)

I’m old enough to have learnt things and had experiences

I’m young enough to still be able to do ANYTHING I want

It's an even number

Blogging as therapy, there you go.

In Real Life (tm)

I can sing a rainbow...

A little while ago I told you that the Internet is my religion. And it is. I wrote a whole blog about it so it must be true.

But let me tell you a little something about real life.

Real life is where hugs happen. It’s where hands can be held, faces can be squished and group huddles can be formed.

In real life last weekend I got to see my dad and my mum. I got to cuddle with my mum and talk about life at 11pm and have breakfast with her the next day. I got to encourage my dad to flush my brother’s fish, Anakin, down the toilet, and encourage my mum not to buy a new fish and try to pass it off as Anakin. In real life, my brother named his fish Anakin, because in real life, my brother is a hero.

In real life I went on a roadtrip with an old friend and a new friend. The old friend’s name is Tim, and the new friend’s name is Beth. Beth and I met on the Internet a few months ago, but in real life on the weekend, we got to meet with our faces. Once again proving that the Internet is awesome, sure, but nothing quite beats real life. Tim and Beth and I went to a place called the Macadamia Castle.  It is a castle. It has a giant knight out the front. It sells macadamias.

In real life we bought hats from a castle

Beth's hair is masquerading here as my beard

In real life I went to Grafton, and drank tea, and saw people I met in Newcastle, and drank tea, and met new people, and drank tea, and got to meet most of my internet friends, and wished Alex a very happy 21st, and talked and laughed and drank champagne. At the tea party I got to meet people who I follow on tumblr, and twitter, and people who like the same things I do, and people who are into things I don’t understand (like Eurovision) and people who make me laugh and… people. Someone said, “it’s the internet in real life!” – and they were right.

In real life I got to watch Muppet Treasure Island with 20 other supposed adults, and lay on the floor in a big heap of blankets and pillow pets and cuddles and was happy. I got to sleep on the floor with the same 20 people and giggle hysterically at Charlie saying “now Lizzy, don’t get any ideas” and zipping himself tightly into a sleeping bag. “If you try anything my sleeping bag will protect me”.

In real life there was bacon. And more tea. And quiet morning chats in the garden. And collaborative kaleidoscopes.

There was more roadtripping with Beth and Tim and now with 100% more Noni. There was new music to discover, and old music to sing along to, and harmonising with one of my favourite friends. There were silly chats and serious discussions and introducing Noni to Queensland.

There was seeing Boyfriend again after 9 days of Boyfriendlessness. And Indian food. And late night drives with The Hobbit audio book and chocolate.

But all of this is overshadowed by the first point: in real life there are hugs, and the Internet, for all its glory, will never be as good as hugs.

Make. Believe.

When I was a kid, I loved ‘imagination games’. These were games predominantly in my head, and involved making up a story to act out. I particularly liked pretending to be a lioness, usually making a daring escape from a mean zookeeper with my lion cubs, who were played by teddies. I also liked to make up adventures in fictional, fantastical or historical places. Or sometimes I would use a book or movie to form the basis of an imagination game and would act out a story that could fit in that world. I know lots of kids play ‘pretend’, but sometimes I wouldn’t even act that much of the game out, I would just let it happen in my head.

I had a friend in primary school who was also into imagination games.  The two of us regularly ran a day care centre for imaginary children, or a shop, or other businesses. We had a purse full of coins from her mum and we pretended that 1c was a dollar, 10c = $10 etc., so if we ever found 5 or 10 dollars, for instance, we would be stinking rich and would take a pretend holiday. Sometimes our games were quite dramatic, I remember one in which I was her blind sister and we were trying to pay for my surgery. We never discussed it, but we only ever played these games when it was just the two of us. When we were with other girls, we played at make up and talked about boys and listened to music and pretended to be grown up. Which is sad, in a way, because we were only about 11. I also remember thinking around this time that I should grow out of playing pretend games, but I never really did.

When I was a teenager, I often used them to help me do things I didn’t want to. Bringing in the washing became harvesting fruit, I would pretend that jobs or homework I had to do were part of a race against the clock type gameshow. I remember spending school holidays when I was home alone, pretending that my life was something else. Not because I didn’t like my life, but because hey, I could be eating 2 minute noodles in the backyard OR I could be eating an authentic Japanese noodle dish in the Emperor’s private garden, awaiting his approval of my new kimono.

As an adult, I definitely don’t play games in my head as often as I used to. It’s sort of as if the kid in me has forgotten how. Or maybe that she’s just asleep, because sometimes I still do. She must wake up every now and again because sometimes I’m not walking down the street; I’m a trained assassin, following my next target. I’m not ironing my clothes, I’m ironing the Lady’s clothes, and if I don’t have all the creases pressed out she won’t look perfect at the ball tomorrow and it will bring disgrace on the house.

Actually, I’m very often living out Downton Abbey fantasies… I play them at work sometimes, when I’m setting up for a conference. All the chairs have to face a certain way, and I like to lay the tea cups out perfectly symmetrically, and all the while I’m not Lizzy, I’m Anna and I’m not setting them out for a client, I’m setting them out for the Crawleys.

I’m not sure if anyone else does this sort of thing, but I suspect it is one of the reasons I like writing stories so much. Do you still play pretend? Tell me all about it.