A most distressing preoccupation.

I’ve been actively applying wrinkle cream since the age of probably thirteen. Most people I tell this to respond in astonishment; they are incredulous, and their first words are usually “But you don’t have any wrinkles!” Exactly, genius. I don’t have wrinkles, I wear wrinkle cream. You have wrinkles, you laugh at me for wearing wrinkle cream. You do the math. As far as I’m concerned, it’s their loss they don’t understand the power of retinol and green tea to ward off premature crows’ feet, and they’ll come crying to me in twenty years when the irreversible damage needs any help it can get from my non-professional dermatological opinion. It often comes as an affront to people when I tell them to stop raising their eyebrows in wonder (sometimes I even reach across the table and physically push the furrow out of their brows), as it will lead inevitably to forehead creases, and nobody wants to look forever inquisitive-or maybe that’s just me.

My mad dash to protect myself from the inevitable, although currently (and thankfully) non-visible age process, is not all that my fear of age entails. Besides the physical manifestation of age, I am afraid of the philosophical implications of aging too, and I fear the passage of time (as it always seems to move too quickly). As my 21^st approaches in approximately a week, the last birthday with any legitimately exciting connotations in America (besides 25, I suppose, when you can rent a car, finally, after a whopping nine years of driving experience) will be over, along with my “youth.” With drinking abilities, there is not much America can deny me anymore. This, to me, is a sign of growing up—leaving behind the days when people, and the law, can tell you “no,” because you’re not old enough. So what happens now that I’m “old” enough? Where do I go from here, what is there to look forward to, what age am I anticipating now? What excitement comes next? As far as I can see, none, in terms of age.

I celebrated 15 getting confirmed on a Palm Sunday with Allison Pomerantz, 16 in Mexico with Mom, 17 and 18 home alone (the latter involved a broken ankle and twin peritonsilar abscesses), 19 at Disney World, and 20 on Hilton Head Island. At each of these landmarks, I could be heard saying things such as “I can drive!”, “This is my last year as a child!”, “This is my first year as an adult!”, “This is my last year as a teenager!”, “This is the first year of my third decade of life!”—preoccupation at its most obsessive and analytical. Why didn’t someone tell me to just take a chill pill, to loosen up on the associations of age and rather just enjoy the age itself? Side note: on at least three of these birthdays, I can recollect having received some sort of wrinkle prevention cream (legitimately, thanks Mom for endorsing my obsession). Kirsten’s 29^th birthday is forthcoming on April 14^th. Although my siblings and parents are probably as yet unaware of this (I, of course, have had it long considered), this is the last birthday in our family that will find the four of us “kids” as twenty-somethings, the last time in all of our lives that we’ll all be in a place of physical vitality and an avant-garde cultural mentality that so defines this decade of our lives. Is it so wrong of me to want to rewind to 1999, the last year we all lived together on Scio Church Road, when we were kids?

So yes, blah blah blah, I know it is fantastically exciting to have the privilege of spending my 21^st in Australia, amidst a culture of partygoers and perpetual cheer. But what if I don’t want to celebrate my 21^st at all? Yes, it will be fun to finally be a “big kid” when I return home in June, but after that? After the excitement wears down, will there be an age worth looking forward to, or is it merely dreadful from here on out? It seems like defeat, reaching the ever-anticipated American age, and realizing that it was a trick: there’s nothing anticipation-worthy from here on out, so at least now you can have a drink to drown your aging sorrows. Oscar Wilde once wrote: “We never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!” I wholly agree with his Peter Pan mentality-I don’t want my twenty-something pulse of joy to ever disappear. I know that I can retain this mentality philosophically speaking, but is it so wrong to want time to just stop in its tracks, to give me a few more years to enjoy this time of life, perhaps to rewind just a little bit and live some of it over again, before an onslaught of responsibility appears as I walk across the stage in May 2011 (hopefully)?

You guys probably all think I’m crazy. You’re saying, “Megan, loosen UP. 21 is not that much different than 20. There are 9 more years until you need to even begin worrying about “old age” and saying goodbye to the popularly considered age of youth” (sorry, Kir...). That’s not much of a consolation, though, and I’m afraid I’ll always be a bit more distressed about the passage of time and the presence of wrinkles than any other lucky twentysomething who is free from these worries. Call it a quirk, chalk it up to individuality, but this preoccupation probably isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, as it’s been weighing on my mind since that 15^th birthday on Palm Sunday so long ago.

Everyone keeps telling me to have the time of my life, that my time here will fly by, that I only get a semester abroad once. They’re right, they’re entirely right. If they were here instead, that’d probably be much more easily accepted than it is for me. I’m trying; I do live every day trying to make this the best possible experience for myself. I guess all I can do on the eve of my 21^st here in Australia is to slap on some extra eye cream and go out and make this one count. Oscar Wilde was also correct when he wrote: “Don’t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning.”

Only if you want to will you seize the day.

Impulses are interesting things. We all have them. Whether it’s reaching for the extra (unnecessary) cookie, wanting that new pair of jeans (guilty as charged), or feeling your heart beat increase spontaneously at the sight of a long absent friend, we make these decisions and feel the repercussions of our impulses for better or worse. My trip to Sydney this past weekend was full of impulsiveness at its best. It may have been a bit impulsive to book our flights and hostel a mere 36 hours before our 4:00 am departure from College Crescent, but Kelly, Maddie, and I set out nonetheless to the unknown land of New South Wales, Australia that fateful Friday morning.

I think it is safe to assume that all of us passed through elementary school with images of outstanding international architectural feats shoved in our faces as often as Oreos. The Great Pyramids, the Colosseum, the Eiffel Tower-we know them all by sight, whether we have visited them personally or not. Sydney Opera House, anyone? Upon arrival and check-in to perhaps the worst temporary home we could have chosen (for future reference, for your own sake, never, under any circumstance, choose willingly to stay at Harbor City Backpackers Hostel), we wistfully wandered Sydney’s Royal Botanic Gardens, taking paths winding through a horticultural heaven toward the harbor and, at last, there it was-across the bay, the sail-like coves of the Opera House stood brilliantly under the dull sunlight. We were nearly stopped in our tracks with just one glance at the opaline domes. And such was our weekend-a series of adventures neatly folded around a continual staring contest with the Sydney Harbor in all of its glory. This first walk around the Harbor led to my impulsive booking of a solo Bridge Climb and an activity tour of the surrounding Blue Mountains for our traveling trio.

On Saturday morning, despite suffering the nervous consequences of my impulsive decision from the day before, I ventured all by my lonesome to 3 Cumberland Road, The Rocks, to begin my Bridge Climb. While Maddie and Kelly headed to Mosman Bay, I climbed endless ladders and steel steps to reach the pinnacle of Sydney sightseeing. Despite two instances of overwhelming wariness (mesh catwalks which loom perilously 400 feet over open water), I am endlessly proud of myself for overcoming my long-lasting fear of heights. Having climbed alone, I was able to stand at the true “top” of Sydney, looking out upon the various nooks and crannies of the metropolis, feeling a sense of selfish pride for having the view all to myself, as a result of my own effort and confidence.

Monday took us deep into the heart of the Blue Mountains, named for the tint given off by the evaporation of eucalyptus oil emanating from the trees and meeting the sunlight. We booked the tour not knowing what we were getting ourselves into, not really having any expectations for the perfect day it was to become. Impulse again, and thank god for it. We saw Jameson valley, Wentworth Falls, Katoomba Falls, the Three Sisters (aboriginal rock formation), the mountain town of Leura; we rode the steepest railway in the southern hemisphere, as well as a glass-bottomed cable car across the valley, and saw the site of the 2000 Sydney Olympics; we petted koalas and kangaroos and learned the proper way to throw a boomerang. Such incomparably thrilling things were shown to us that day and the three of us were endlessly thankful that we’d been willing to shell out the $88 to go on the tour into the unknown, which turned out to be the tour of a lifetime.

I can safely say that my sojourn to Sydney was a most impressionable time, if for the sole reason that I let my instincts, my impulses, guide me toward fearlessness-for the first time in my life, I took extraordinary risks and learned to reap the rewards of truly seizing the day and filling it with as much as my eyes could hold. I think the moral of the story is to chase those impulses, to trust them, to let them guide you-to reach those heights, hear those sounds, see those sights-and to be better for having trusted yourself.

It's a small world after all...

I attended Slauson Middle School in Ann Arbor from 2000-2003. I was chubby, brace-faced and, by that time, I was a pretty good-natured kid, having said farewell to my "Megan the Monster" days (for the most part...). In Ms. Turbin's 7th grade language arts class, I suddenly found myself sitting next to an international transfer student one day midway through the year. She was the classic 'new kid,' as I have been before in my life. She was soft-spoken, with a quick, big smile, wary, yet wondrous, of her new surroundings. Throughout that first day, I was to find out that Pavithira Kirupakaran was to be my classmate in Mr. Fuller's geography class and Mr. Bradley's chemistry class as well. The halls of Slauson became much more sophisticated that day with Pavi's presence. I think it is safe to say she was the most worldly peer I'd known at that stage in my life, claiming Malaysian ethnicity, yet having grown up in Melbourne, Saudi Arabia, and Los Angeles. I'm hoping that, at this stage in the post, a 'ding ding ding' is resounding and a metaphorical lightbulb has clicked itself brightly on above your head.

With that said, would you care to guess with whom I met for lunch this afternoon? Pavithira Kirupakaran. That's right, my long-lost 7th grade international acquaintance. Now, to be fair, she was not just an acquaintance all those years ago. In the year and a half that her family lived in Ann Arbor, Pavi and I actually became quite sweet friends. My 'elephant memory,' as Susie so often calls it, can reflect upon a snowy day when my mom brought Pavi and I to get peppermint mochas at the Starbucks on South University Avenue, and the long Sunday afternoon during which Pavi and I slaved over Mr. Bradley's worthless 'hot house' insulation project in the 8th grade. I even have photographic evidence of the farewell dinner that Tracy Richardson and I had with Pavi before her imminent return to her Melbournian home in November of 2002 (you'll be tickled to know that the dinner involved escargot at Cafe Felix..a tad extreme for our 8th grade sensibilities if you ask me). We kept in touch for about a year after her departure via our hysterically self-titled yahoo email accounts (which have since been deposed).

I lost touch with her for the ensuing five years, as higher education and some 10,000 miles served to distract us from the friendship we once shared. Nonetheless, and may I say with extreme gratitude extended to the Facebook team, I spent the entire afternoon with her: lunch at Pizzeria Il Bimbo (organic pizza? yes please!), shopping on Little Collins and Bourke streets, cruising the laneways for the best thrift shops and sushi stands, and capping off the evening with fanciful southern cocktails at Madame Brussells, a rooftop patio lounge that allows you to saunter ever so sweetly back to the days of tennis whites and fairy lights. Over some pitchers of delightful drinks (the names are a bit risqué for the blogging community, I'm afraid) mixed with grapes, mint leaves, and raspberries, we continued our epic "catch up session." I'm quite fond of the ironic notion that Pavi and I have reversed the roles that we once assumed at Slauson, so that while I'm here in Melbourne, I get to be intoduced as the foreign friend. All in all, I am lucky to have such a spectacularly fun and like-minded Melbournian friend for the next few months and, as always, I am ever pleased to have made another connection to prove how small our world really is.

Rugged Sarcasm.

Billy Madison has been singing through my cerebrum, “back to school, back to school, to prove to Dad that I’m not a fool...” Although it’s been a rude awakening (remembering how to take notes, to prepare for class, to engage in the readings), it has been nice returning to the world of the worthwhile. You must no longer envy my status as an aimless city wanderer, a beach frolicker, an out-to-eater, a pub-crawler. I am now an officially enrolled student at the University of Melbourne, the second oldest, very esteemed, university in Australia, and I’m back to contributing, in my own small way, to academia. Nonetheless, I bet Scuba Steve and Mother Mary are glad that I’m finally doing something legitimate with my time, rather than maintaining my status as a social glutton.

My first days of ‘uni’ have proved successful, if successful means effectively finding each of my lecture halls on time and following, for the most part, the entirety of the content despite the amplified Australian accents that professors gain through microphone usage. It’s been quite unique walking into lecture halls; hailing from a small, private, liberal arts university, I am unaccustomed to not recognizing each face and, hence, connecting each face with a name, a sport, a sorority, a judgment, a memory, some sense of familiarity.

The equally new phenomena of T.A.’s and tutorials bring me to explain the reason for which I’ve entitled this blog post “Rugged Sarcasm.” Please be forewarned that I’m saying this purely out of curiosity-I could not help but raise a challenge flag at what happened in my Australia Now tutorial this morning. Much to Maddie’s chagrin, I was genuinely flabbergasted (not disgusted, not being an elitist, simply taken aback, quite aback) when our T.A., a supposed Ph.D. candidate, could spell neither ‘rugged’ nor ‘sarcasm’ without the assistance of the class. So yes, I may have rolled my eyes, and yes, I may have scoffed a tiny bit, especially after the second offense occurred, but is it all that wrong to question someone’s authority and responsibility to teach you when they cannot spell two words that the general majority would consider easy, especially at the level of higher education? I’ve never had a T.A. before, so perhaps that is why I find such fault with what could have been a simple “brain fart” disrupting her Tuesday morning (thus disrupting MY Tuesday morning). Spelling curiosity aside, I am nonetheless looking forward to the fruits of Classical Mythology, Australia Now, Decadent Literature, and Genre and Popular Fiction. Be prepared to hear my upcoming literary suggestions, as my book list ranges from James’ The Spoils of Poynton, Sacher-Masoch’s Venus in Furs, and Huysmans’ Against Nature to (no authors necessary, you’ll see why) The Hobbit, The Silence of the Lambs, and The War of the Worlds. Happy reading and happy (correct) spelling!