“Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?”

Me, aged 21 years: “Climbing up the corporate ladder, acquiring as much experience as I can and working to the bone to eventually be CEO of this company.”

Me, aged 26 years: “I hope to be still in a role that continually challenges me on a professional and personal level. But I do hope to get married and start a family too.”

 

Somewhere along the line something changed. Priorities shifted. The Important Things in Life began to make their foray into the clutter of my life. And I think to myself, ‘what the hell happened here?’ Since when did engagement rings come swiftly off the hand at job interviews? And since when did I have to sugar-coat my five-year projection? Ever since when did Housewifery take precedance over Chief Executive Officers?

But you know what? I’ve never felt any happier, ever.  

I’ve lost ambition and career fervour but I’ve gained more love and adoration than a fat pay cheque could ever buy. 

Isn’t it funny what a quarter-life-crisis can do to you.

on my ipod

“They made a statue of us

and they put it on a mountain top

now tourists come and stare at us

blow bubbles with their gum

take photographs of us,

have fun, have fun.”

- Regina Spektor ‘Us’ (500 Days of Summer soundtrack)

Soft morning light trickles through the jacquard curtains that line this bedroom. Think 1000-count white sheets and a wrought-iron and timber bassinet that cradles two people in love. 

He gradually rouses until he remembers what he will ask her at first light today. 

Careful not to disturb his girl beside him with the beautiful beat of his heart, he turns to the bedside and picks up the black marker that sits alongside a brilliant diamond. 

Pausing for a moment, he watches her sleep as her long opaque hair cavorts across the pillow. Snug underneath the bed covers, she dreams sweetly; of beaus like him and of moments like these.

Her rosy lips purse. And as his fleeting heart beats briskly, he knows the time is now.

The marker begins to move in delightful ways. And in small inky letters, he scribes on her ring finger words that have been uttered a million times over by men he’s never met; but men whom are undeniably as enraptured as he.

Then she wakes.

And she looks down at her fingers.

Then her eyes dart to the love of her life.

And her eyes begin to smile. 

And he holds the half-carat solitaire in the palm of his hand.

And her ring finger says, “Marry me.”

I might die today. Maybe my brain will burst or someone on the road will disregard the stop sign. Perhaps a freak accident will claim my life, or that suspicious-looking backpack lying on the ground will detonate as I walk past. Or maybe I’ll drift off to sleep tonight to never wake up and tell my mother I love her one last time.

If it doesn’t happen today, it could happen tomorrow. Or the next day. The following week then.

The thing is, all of us know that eventually our time will come. But most of us don’t believe it. And it intrigues me to the point where I wonder what our lives would be like it we believed it. How different it would be if we made every minute count. If, every time we stepped outside, we would appreciate every fresh breath of air our lungs are still able to take. 

My boyfriend wears a watch with hands that say “Remember one day you will die”. Someone close to me has emphysema.

Whatever it may be that reminds you that life is short, believe it. And live and love until it hurts.

Lazy Sundays

Wearing Shakuhachi dress and Zara leather boots

He swore black and blue he’d have an early one tonight. But as he held her tight in the midnight hour, hopes of that were dashed. Because if ever there was a time to say it, it would almost certainly be now. And if ever there was a moment as fearless as now, they knew it would be one that may never come again.

She curls herself in the goodness of his arms as they lose themselves in careful conversation. The sky twinkled against a pitch-black canvas. They were in the throes of winter but his virtuous blanket of adoration kept the cold at bay. 

She began.

“It’s bottom-of-your-heart-type-stuff. When you can’t see it, you can feel it. And you know that even though it may change, it will never, ever, fade.”

“It’s so different from being in love. Because loving someone is a choice. An action. A doing-word.”

He scrunches up his nose in confusion. 

But then, he starts to smile back at her.

Because definitions and rules aside, he never doubted how he felt. 

He knew she was the one.

And stars in the sky aside, it was his words that would set this moment ablaze.

“I do. God, of course I do. There is no other feeling. And no other choice.” 

He grasps at a handful of words to find only three that truly mattered.

“I love you.”

When: 17:00 on a flippant Saturday afternoon

Where: Port Beach, Fremantle.

Wearing: Shakuhachi dress, Scanlan & Theodore japanese silk bomber, Balenciaga bag, Country Road leather waist belt & sandals. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All photography credited to my uber talented bf Jamie

My late grandmother once told me to never get married.

Whilst it seemed like eccentric advice at the time, over the years I began to understand. Because how do you know you will spend the rest of your life with just one person? Where would I find someone who wants to spend the rest of their life with me too?

And what will it take for you to weather the storms with me? What happens when love isn’t enough?

Because I’ve been there, done that. I’ve dated someone longer than some people have been married. And I was there when I bitterly discovered love wasn’t enough. 

But what once appeared preposterous and ridiculous to me has suddenly become believable. So believable that it’s truly unbelievable.

Because he made me realise why people do it. Why I would give up everything in this world to spend the rest of my life with him. Why handpicked flowers and sweet post-it notes aside, he’s so incredible.

And I don’t know how you did it but the thought of waking up next to you just to see your smile in the morning is what it will take for me to weather the storms.

With you.

I started this blog to help me see the luster in all my rough patches. And as it saw me through the darkest periods of my life thus far, I also feel so incredibly special to have inspired people I’ve never met, and people I’ve known my whole life.

But I’ve always believed it’s not that we don’t have enough time; rather, it’s that we don’t make the time. And so, many 4am bedtimes and 7am wake up calls later, something’s gotta give. I’m giving up blogging for a while whilst I reel my life back in, or until I figure out a way for books to write themselves!

So rest assured, I’ll be back – one day.

“I wanted to do shoes which are really just shoes for seduction. For pleasure. For sex. That’s it. A shoe, you cannot run, you cannot even walk. You want to run in your shoes? Buy sneakers.” – Christian Louboutin

four more sleeps until my doorstep is greeted with such perfection!

The other day I was having a conversation with my best friend about being 25.

As I navigated my way through the throes of depression over the past six months, she negotiated cobbled Parisian streets and unruly New York subways. But although our experiences seem poles apart, we have finally found our way back home… and it’s like we are suddenly seeing the world through a brand new set of eyes. 

I remember like it was yesterday. The phone call my best friend received whilst we were in the car on a Tuesday afternoon, almost four years ago, that delivered the great news that the grad job was hers for the taking. My first day at a job that took me eight months to find after graduating. Then the heady excitement of pay rises and corporate functions; morning teas and rambunctious after-work drinks; the satisfaction that ensued from pounding the pavement on the Terrace as Someone and no longer as a feeble uni student hoping to make it in an ivory tower one day. God. We wanted to be rich; we wanted to be magnificent; we wanted it all and we wanted it now. 

But then something happens when you turn 25. You realise it’s not all that cracked up to be. Playing politics is so far removed from what you had ever learnt in Management 100. And when your world comes crashing down, you discover that joining the herd on the Terrace makes you just another number; another head; another seat in a stifling office. Just another pitiful face when you walk through those revolving doors and greet gilded foyers at half past eight each morning.

Because all uni ever taught us was to attend lecture #1 and #14 so as to not miss out on final exam hints. And the hardest part of our day was trying to find parking at 8am.

Little did we know that the Real World would eventually teach us how many coffees it would take to get us through to 10am each day.

Some people hack it; but I guess others flounder.

Some people lose the ambition and I guess we have become one of them.

So whether it takes a 15K trip to Europe or wanting to take your own life at age 25 to confront these harsh realities, we have attempted to come away unscathed from our quarter life crisis.

My best friend wants to be a better daughter, a better sister, the greatest friend anyone could ask for.

And me? I can’t change the past but I know I can influence the future. And through my words I hope to be that change.

Turning 25 was unfathomable. Being 25 is a bitch.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

And I hope that maybe he can’t see my tears in the dark.

“Bullshit.”

I look down at him with puffy eyes and scoff.

“How do you know?”

And he looks at me thoughtfully and simply says this:

“Because I know you.”

I look back at this perfection before my eyes and force a smile.

But I already know he can see right through that too.

Because it’s as if he knows me better than I ever knew myself.

* * *

Feathery clouds drift languidly across the inky sky, besieging a restless ivory moon that is ablaze in its wake. 

“Maybe I’m not good enough for you.”

I blink my tears away but they keep coming.

“You deserve to have that magic.”

“Bullshit.”

He holds me in his arms as I break down and cry.

Through the tears, I see the clouds triumphing over the moon until I can no longer feel its brilliance hovering over us from under the heavens. 

“Believe in yourself for once.”

He props himself up and holds me even tighter.

“Believe in us.”

“Because what we have is already magic.”

The photography dilettante cradles her day-old Nikon in her hands. Peering through the lens, she waits for a beautiful ribbon of water to make its way to the sandbar. Then, underneath the stars, she presses the shutter. Once. Twice. 

And on thrice, she feels something rouse to her left. A presence so stirring and simply magnetic: something unmistakably electric but so breathtakingly compelling. 

In photography terms, she is the rookie and he is the enthusiast. And in so many ways, he is the Jedi and she is the Padawan. But this, they do not know yet. Because little do they realise this is just the beginning.

She looks out into the twilight and, breathlessly, she begins to think aloud.

“There’s something about the sound of waves crashing to the shore that’s so god damn beautiful.”

She doesn’t turn to face him. And he says not one word in reply. But she knows he was listening; that he understands just how much a glimpse of the ocean can take the pain away.

But what he doesn’t know – and not for a while yet – is how much she is hurting. That she has plans to leave, to fulfill an insatiable desire to escape this town. Just her, a battered mind, an assaulted heart and a bruised ego.

The sound of rolling waves have taken her hurt away more times than she could count in a calendar month. And so it seems that tonight – the evening the full moon was nigh – will become another one of those times.

*  *  * 

There was something so cavalier about getting to know one another over chamomile at 2 in the morning at his.

She was way past her curfew but kind of thirsty after their photography excursion. As he poured the tea out of the glass beaker and warmed it in a mug for her, she propped herself up on the counter and lamented the perils of her quarter life.

The sound of tiny fish beckoning wayward in a tank filtered through his kitchen. The ruffled snore of his aloof but enchanting dog and the rustling of an albino pet rabbit provided a background symphony to what would become a love story in its infancy.

He watched her speak articulately, with a lucid sincerity beyond her allure and a maturity beyond her blossoming years. In between careful sips of chamomile, her eyes lit up with such animation that he thought he could lose himself in her charisma. And without even trying, she blew him away; and he was certain he had never met anyone as inspiring as she. 

She knelt down on the cold tiles to greet the endearing treasure that was his dog. And as ivory marshmallowed mops of fur nuzzled her neck, he looked over at the beautiful élan that was her and wished she didn’t have to leave tonight.

But he had already made up his mind. She was the one. And in those moments that she would smile to herself whilst she spoke, he knew she was the girl he had waited 27 years for.

conversations with my parents (meeting the boyfriend)

Mum: “Do you think it will be okay if I ask him to shave?”

Mich: “Mum! What’s wrong with facial hair?”

Mum: “Well… it just makes him look a bit old.”

Mich: “He doesn’t look that old! And no you can’t tell him to shave it off.”

Mum: “Aiya, but he has sideburns too! Doesn’t his mum  say anything about it?”

Dad: (at the dinner table) “Jason?”

Mich: (completely mortified) “Aw Dad! His name is not Jason.”

Dad: “Oh. What is it again?”

Mich: “Jamie.”

Dad: “Jaimney?”

Mich: “No, it’s Ja-mie.  J – a – m - i – e.”

Dad: (light bulb moment) “Oh I see, Jammie!”

Jamie: “Um, that’s okay, you can call me whatever you want.”

Dad: “His ears are pierced.”

Mum: “Aiyaaa, I know, I know.”

Mum: “How come he smiles so much?”

Mich: (brows furrow) “Why is that a bad thing?”

Mum: “Where do your parents live? Is your mother nice? Where do you live? How old are you? Where were you born? Where do you work? What do your parents do for a living? You speak Chinese? How do you like Vietnamese food? How old are your parents? So, you said your mother is quite nice, is that right…?”

Mich: “Mum! What’s with the freakin’ 2000 questions?”

Mum: “Aiya, I am just trying to get to know your boyfriend a little bit.”

Mum: “Can he speak Mandarin?”

Mich: “Yeah, a bit.”

Mum: “Ah, good. He can speak Mandarin to your sister in-law. They can get on well.”

Mich: “Um, I think they’ll be speaking English, Mum.”

Mum: “Michelle, you’ve had your heart broken too much. Be careful.”

Mich: “I know, mum.”

Mum: “And good luck to you.”

Mum: “I been thinking. He is a nice boy, but I just wish he’d shave.”

As the Swiss movement on my watch became far too efficient for our liking, my curfew fell by the wayside and I hugged you tighter.

The words slipped from the cautiousness of your mouth but that was why it was so incredible.

You know exactly how to do it without even knowing. And often without even myself knowing. Your beautiful words are always accidental, amorously inadvertant, always planned to some extent but never, ever contrived.

With the television blaring something non-descript in the distance, I curled up in your arms and decided to butterfly kiss you infinite times.

Then you became so thoughtfully emphatic.

“You’re the one. You’re It…”

You looked at me.

“You’re the girl. You’re…

And what you’re about to say would become the second most beautiful words I’ve heard.

…the one I’m in love with.”

You could see it in my smile as I looked up at you with tears in my eyes.

“And you say my words are incredible.”

As I crumpled in your arms, my furrowed brows became at peace in the nook of your neck. And as sprinkles of rain christened us in the parking lot, you said to me this:

“I will never hurt you the way he did.”

And as I began to cry, you cradled my trembling face in both hands and I whispered to you this:

“…are you a dream?”

And you drew me in close and as my cheek savored the trace of your smile, you breathtakingly swore this:

“I’m right here.”

“…but then I met you.”

And as we huddle on the jetty to keep out the frost, beautiful words are heard like never before. The horizon illuminates with a myriad of twinkling lights, and the air becomes irresistibly saccharine with our conversations. And as the composure of the water that flounders beneath washes over us, I ask him this: 

Where have you been all my life?

“Oh… I’ve found you.”

Breathlessly. But before she can muse any further, he breaks her train of thought. As she curls up next to him on the plush leather couch, he points to an antique poster of a Miyazaki masterpiece that is anchored on the wall above them. 

“My favourite film…”, he coos. In awe of the beautiful coincidence, he proceeds to enlighten her on a special castle that swirled in the sky once upon a time in a place called Laputa. 

It is his first time in this literary sanctuary of hers. She brought him here because he can never find the time to sit down and read. Books of all shapes and subject matters are stacked like Jenga blocks at their feet. Her head rests on his shoulder as he thumbs through a colourful book on the brilliance of animations. His other hand has curled itself in hers, resting in her lap. And the two of them simply just read.

As she catches her breath at the sublime way Nam Le weaves simple words in his debut novel, he steals a glance at her. And he thinks to himself this:

“In amongst a crowd of beautiful thoughts, this one resonates the most tonight. I could see us doing this in our own living room one day.”

He looks at his girl, who attempts to juggle the pages of her paperback with one hand just so she can hold his hand with the other. And she thinks to herself this:

“He is so incredible. And I could spend the rest of my life curled up just like this.”

“YES! Say it a million times. Then say it a million more.” – Yes Man (2008)

She blushes madly. And there’s something about the way he smiles at her. And in that moment, they knew this was It. It was unexpected, unplanned, and it was downright crazy. It was dizzying, it was dazzling, but it just felt so right.

It is an hour past midnight. The cafe moonlights as a revered hang-out, popular for debuting embryonic jazz bands and arousing intimate chats in mellowed booths. For hours, they have found themselves engrossed in conversations concerning movies, music and heartbreak.

He sits across from her in mesmerised disbelief. As he crosses his legs nervously under the table, she faintly grazes her bare calf against his well-worn jeans, half-hoping he’d notice. Their eyes dart back and forth, from coffee machine to his heartfelt expressions, from the glass of water she sips periodically to the way she wears his jacket with such a graceful aloofness.

The sleeves of his jacket are upturned because they are too long on her. The silk slip dress she chose to wear tonight peeks out from underneath. But he keeps her warm with his smiles and his beaten windbreaker, with its crimson lining covering her small wrists. And it is magnificently addictive: him watching her watching him watching her. And for a good five minutes, they wish they had the courage to think aloud; to say what they’ve wanted to say for so long now; to be together, at long last.

It feels so right that it doesn’t feel real. And in their eyes, they search to make sense of their feelings for one another. 

Finally, her eyes ask him what he’s thinking about.

And his lips say this:

“What I’m about to ask you is something so unplanned.”

He dares to look at her for a second. There is an indescribable beauty in the way she smiles tenderness at him.

This is the moment. 

And he starts by saying this:

“I was wondering…”

 And his eyes lose themselves deeply in hers…

“…if you would like to be my girlfriend.”

Poetry.

In the dimly lit cafe, the excitement of a budding romance is clear as day. She reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers for the very first time.

He has left her wondrously speechless. But in the cafe that buzzes with the sounds of jazz music, she drowns out the music to finally catch her breath, and to him lyrics this:

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Haunt: The Beaufort St Merchant, Mt Lawley

Poison: Soy Latte in a mug – $5

Time: 7:45 in the a.m.

Garb: Fleur Wood broderie dinner jacket cinched at the waist with Aurelio Costarella black silk wide belt, black linen boyfriend trousers & ballerina slippers

The lady in a fuschia cashmere scarf ambles out of her anthracite 320i. Immaculately groomed, she sports tousled auburn hair and a battered black leather doctors’ bag in the crook of her arm. She takes a seat by the window and shortly after, her piping hot flat white arrives. 

A suit and tie, progressively greying, is only a step behind her. Adorns his wedding finger is a gold band. He is possibly an empty-nester and a prominent businessman if his furrowed expression is anything to go by. He doesn’t occupy his seat for long, he is most likely on the go. I’d go as far as saying he will probably join the herd on the Terrace this morning.

Then a willowy attractive blonde steps in, with her partner – good looks and all – in tow. Your usual nightmare. She makes a beeline for the antique leather couch and opens the daily whilst he orders for the both of them. They chat sporadically, like most comfortable couples do, reading newspapers separately. Her choice read? The middle part of The West, like most thespians, and girls alike on any given Wednesday. Naturally, I notice her sublime, effortless morning outfit. Like something out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s; she could give Holly Golightly a run for her money. Nonetheless, she is enveloped in a black drapey robe cardigan that falls past her knees. Peeking out from underneath is a silk faille slip dress, lace-trimmed, I think, in a brilliant shade of fairy floss pink.

In amongst the quiet calamity, a middle-aged woman adorned with black-framed specs tucks into her fruit toast. Her flat white has just been delivered by a spunky waiter with a neat crew cut. As always, my eyes travel to her choice of handbang, languishing on the timber bench where her coffee has taken pride of place. I recognise the unmistakable Prada triangle but deliberate its authenticity given the tarnished gold hardware. Ah, such frivolous matters enthrall me so.

The ensembley-challenged couple to my right appears as though they live in the area. He is endearingly dressed in jeans, sneakers and a moss-brown cotton overcoat. She is clad in a white crochet concoction of some sort, layered over a black camisole. Whilst he devours in his bacon and eggs, she catches up on the breaking news in newspaper form. They are a stark, but refreshing, contrast to the rest of the suits and ties in the coffee institution. 

Cars flash by outside. People have places to go and promises to break. Buses whizz by, collecting office workers and uni students.

The man in the moss-brown jacket kisses his wife goodbye and boards a bus. But no matter; her scrambled eggs and news of stocktake sales will amuse her for the next half hour.

I crane my neck to read a blackboard hitched high on the wall behind me. I think it’s totally cool how they knocked off an old door and transformed it into a wall piece, and slapped some blackboard paint onto it. The chalky scribble reads something quite long and winded, but ends with “…mmm, beer.”, quoting none other than Homer Simpson.

He looks like he is on his day off. Or perhaps he was recently made redundant and drowning his sorrows in a large mug of latte and a magazine. Converse sneakers, a striped hoody, and sunnies perched on his head: all essential ingredients for a languid day off.

I love winter clothes. A blonde woman with nape-of-neck-length hair strolls in, hiding behind her black Wayfarers. She is wearing all black; with the exception of a sensational bright pink pashmina draped effortlessly over her shoulders. She’s all cool. I have just noticed the colour of her canvas tote: mustard yellow. A beautiful collision indeed.

Another waiter drops by my table and notices I am almost through my mug of soy latte. He asks if I’m up for another one. Hm. Cute smile.

The florist across the road prepares to open shop for the day. Dandelions, tulips, gerberas, carnations and the ubiquitous roses. I wonder which ones my mum would like today?

The lady with the mustard yellow handbag takes her sunglasses off. She is joined by a hoard of similarly-aged women, all dressed in black. Why the drab garb? Is Perth the new Melbourne? The phethora of morbid-garbed women are juxtaposed by the youthful exuberance in manner of a cherub-faced girl in a Perth College uniform. But don’t let her embryonic looks fool you: she fits in rather nicely with the ladies of old money and wealth.

Men in suits. This one is wearing a dove-grey slim-cut ensemble, accessorising it with a black leather compendium. I catch him looking at me for a fair while. Me providing him with early-morning eye candy? Nah… I didn’t even brush my hair this morning – because it was so knotty that I gave up halfway straggling a comb through it – and my dark circles would scare little children despite the Becca concealer I’ve caked on in the wee hours of this morning. I conclude that he’s probably attempting to decipher Homer Simpson behind me.

8:35am and an enormous amount of passer-bys flock into the Merchant. 9-5′ers no doubt.

This place seriously rocks. 

The waiter interrupts my thoughts and asks me what’s wrong with their music. I unplug the white earphones and tell him I’m writing and I like to listening to Jessica Mauboy whilst doing so. He asks me if I’d like another coffee. Soon, I say.

Hmm. About time for more poison. I do the really nice thing and take my empty mug to the counter so the lovely waitstaff don’t have to drop by my table for the quadbillioneth time. As I order a small mocha, the barista asks me how my latte was. Fantastic as always, I reply. Referring to my gesture of bringing my empty mug to the counter, the other waiter taps me on the arm and jokingly enquires why Australians don’t like table service. I laugh warmly and retort with “No, Australians are just nice and considerate.” Cue my trademark cheeky smile.

Aww. Obligatory cute moment. A toddler in a knitted rainbow cardigan stumbles past my table. With pom poms on his sleeves, he looks like a licorice allsort with a mop of blonde hair on top. I look to the counter and see the barista preparing a babycino for this cutie, who just so happened to throw a tantrum at the table, whilst his mother, up to her elbows with another rambunctious infant, tries to curb his wallowing.

I wonder if the Merchant knows I’m people-watching. Or if they suspect I’m reviewing their coffee. Because when my mocha arrives, complete with a smile from the waiter, I not only get two marshmallows but also an adorable leopard-speckled yellow frangipani on the side. I look around and revel in the fact that no one else gets handpicked flowers with their order…

Hmm. Perhaps next time I’ll work on a free coffee.