Gym? What's a gym? ......... Oh, a gym!

(Yes, to all you Simpson's fans out there, I realise that without hearing it, that title makes no sense and for those who have no idea why the title is, in fact hilarious, please check out this video. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4i8SpNgzA4)


It all became clear one unseasonably rainy summer afternoon. Dressed in my usual summer attire of shorts and a singlet, I lounged sluggardly, being efficient only in my tactics to avoid my uni readings. Yes, it was only Week One, hardly enough time to manage to fall behind but I knew the minute I pushed aside “America Since 1900” in favour of something a little lighter and more fantasy based, that I would end up in Week 14 with only a knowledge of Elven High Magic practices and nothing else in the slightest that would be helpful come exams. Visions of essays containing intriguing propositions such as “Although the United States was, until the turn of the 20th Century, mainly a rural nation, it was not seen in any of the scenes in Lord Of The Rings. Rather the location of Middle Earth was deemed to be far more appropriate to support the ‘hero’s journey’.” Although I am sure that it would be found to be highly amusing by both lecturers and the guy’s who run the “Stupid Essays Written By Unfocussed Students” website, I knew that it would not give me the HD that I sought.

Alas, I digress. This one afternoon, wind whipping violently against my windows, thoughts akin to those above yet to surface in my mind, I lay downstairs on the couch watching a DVD. Red Vs Blue to be exact, as ever since a part of it got played in one of my lectures last year, I have quite easily been able to convince my wayward mind, that not only is watching it helpful to my education, but that it is sure to make me more attractive to the opposite sex as well. As the wind picked up and the sky became muddied by cloud, the temperature began to drop. Indiscernible at first but as Church revealed that Tex was not only female, but also his former girlfriend, I found myself in the foetal position, muscles twitching in an attempt to keep me warm. As I live in a house that not only contains blankets of varying sizes but also electric heating devices, a plethora of solutions to my chilling problem presented themselves. It was when I decided to take none of these choices but instead remain cold, shivering on the couch, lest I have to actually get up and walk up a flight of stairs, that I knew I had a problem.

I was unfit.

So unfit that not only did I choose to freeze as opposed to getting off the couch and doing something about it, but walking up the gentle incline from the car park to the Hill Lecture Theatre, left me puffing and red in the face. I had many excuses for my lackadaisical nature. “I am too intelligent to concern myself with the worries of the physical realm. I shall overcome all obstacles using my superior power of mind alone,” was a common one. “I’m too poor to have a gym membership and fresh air is bad for my constitution,” was another. But the signs for the Murdoch University Gym not only showed pictures of happy skinny people, visually promising me that if I join I would be popular and have straight teeth, but also showed a price that I could afford. So I joined.

To be continued.....(once I finish those readings that I still haven’t done from Week One)

I'm still here, I'm still alive, I'm still writing. Welcome to Second Year.

So I passed first year. I wasn't turned off by the lengthy essays or the expensive food in the ref. I felt somewhat more knowledgeable when I enrolled in units that didn't begin with "Introduction to...". I saw people who looked more lost than I did. I knew then that second year had begun and with it comes a whole new year of posts from me.

Will I pass?

Will I make new friends?

Will I learn anything at all besides the price of Bubble O Bills?

To be cliched, only time will tell.

Pearl of Advice No. 1 - Study something you are actually interested in.

**DODLEDOTDOODLEDORT (time travelling noises)**


The year is 2000. We had just conquered Y2K with little more than a few bumps and bruises brought on by hiding under a makeshift shelter (a tarp thrown carefully over the Hills Hoist) to protect ourselves from planes that were sure to fall out of the sky on the stroke of midnight. We were yet to experience the devestation of the SARS outbreak in 2003 and we were still a year away from discovering the wonders of the iPod.

I wandered onto my first university campus, my Sony Discman bulging out of the pocket of my cargo shorts, threatening to pull them down with each step, as I went to sign up for my first degree. In these days, before everything was done online, you had to actually wait for your acceptance letter to come in the mail and then make the trip over to the campus to accept and choose your units, then you had to hang around while the lecturers posted sign up sheets on the doors of the lecture halls. As I entered some room that had been transformed into the enrollment room a pile of forms was thrust in my face , each one demanding the same information as the last. Name. Date of Birth. TER. A blur of forms later I was handed my enrollment card. As I looked at it, I was momentarily confused. Next to my name was "Bachelor of Business/Bachelor of Science" and as I had little interest in both science and business, I couldn't figure out why it would be right there on my form. But then I remembered. I had enrolled in that degree for every other reason than that it would interest me.

"It will get you a good job", says Mum.

"Arts students are all hippies who go on to make a living off pot smoking and abstact paintings made with macaroni", says Dad.

"If you don't go to uni and get a good sensible degree you will never succeed in life", says the misguided Guidance Counsellor.

So that was how I found myself with a Billabong bag full of Advanced Calculus and Accounting books and a penchant for sleeping in lectures. I hated uni. I hated my Mathematics for Computer Sciences Lecturer who spoke too fast. I hated my Accounting tutor who made jokes that nobody laughed at. I hated that I was forced to study something that made me want to vomit. I hated that I was the only girl in one of my units and therefore was regarded as some kind of alien. So after one semester I left.


**DODLEDOTDOODLEDORT (time travelling noises)**

So fast forwarding past 7 years of travel, playing computer games and regularly changing jobs I found myself again ready to enrol in uni. This time as I sat in front of my computer enrolling in units I was excited. I eagerly read the description of each unit, bought my books early and even started reading them. I went to lectures and didn't sleep. I researched more than was neccessary. I read more than was neccessary. I contributed to discussions and passed my exams with flying colours.

The difference? This time I was studying something I loved. Something that I found interesting and inspiring. And although I still found myself often being the only girl, the strange staring no longer bothered me.

Pearl of Advice No. 1
Study something that won't make you want to vomit because in the end, regardless of the pressures you have to study something else, if you love what you study, your uni life will not only be much easier, it will also be enjoyable.

I'll see you anon.

End of the year.
It came as it always does, but the difference this year is that I can say that I am a third of the way through a degree. Most years, the later months brought about the realisation that although I am a year older, approaching thirty far more quickly that I ever thought possible, I still laugh at people when they trip over. I hoped a partially completed degree would get me respect and admiration from all those I passed, but it mostly got me addicted to 2 minute noodles and the phrase "I'll do it after I watch this episode of Star Trek".

There have been many changes. Mostly I find myself using words like sedulous, contumacious and even dude, whilst taking out pretentious books from the library. I've contemplated the idea of smoking a pipe on campus and searched for tweed jackets on eBay. I've spent a great portion of time sitting in the sun on Bush Court, eating Bubble O Bill's and laughing at my own jokes. I've received a decent amount of inquiring stares from the multitude of 18 year olds in my tutorials, who never thought that 25 year olds would ever wear bright yellow M&M's t-shirts.

Although I enjoyed my year, there are things that I would have liked to have changed, and maybe some stuff that I would have done. I would have spent more time in the library. I would have talked to many more people. I would have listened to my iPod less and smiled more. I would be more prepared but less worried. I would sleep more and be nicer. I guess that's why they give you three or so years to figure it out. 2010 will bring with it a smiling, studying, successful uber graduate. That's me.

Although this year is over and this blog was started with the intention to give others thinking of returning to study an idea of one person's first year experience, I shall continue on until I feel I am no longer humorous (and yes that means I think I am damn funny right now).

Writing is like free therapy. I get to be less insane and you get to laugh at me. It's a symbiotic relationship.

Okay. I know. I'm terrible.

So you would think I would have some great excuse for my recent blog absence. "Maybe she has been training to be a brain surgeon in her spare time", some of you may have been thinking but the truth is far less exciting. I went a little blank. Everything I wrote ended up being more like a Christmas shopping list, or an uninspired note that you write on the fridge to let your housemates know that the light upstairs in the hallway has blown. So instead of subjecting you all (Mum and Ben) to drivel while I am out there in the real world living it up with my red parking permit that I received as a prize for doing this blog, I kept silent. And you know silence can be good. Silence is when I get my good ideas. And silence can bring about order and even a little peace. So while I am brewing up something tasty for next week, here is my latest assignment that I submitted for my Creative Writing unit.

Enjoy.

I demand you to.

First Impressions

Her neon dress clutched desperately to her robust frame, slightly transparent in parts where the material struggled to contain what was inside. A chubby hand, rows of rings, sometimes two a finger, pulled at her hem. She exposed her white knickers to the waiting traffic at the crossroad, whether or not it was intentional or by accident wasn’t clear as she sat on the bench behind her, legs crossed, one animal print boot bobbing nervously in the air. Her tortoise shell glasses were pushed awkwardly forward, barely clinging to the tip of her nose, as she peered back and forth over the top of the lenses. They obviously spoiled her vision but I guess they were part of her look. Her long straw-like blond hair was held off her face with a multitude of plastic butterfly clips, some covered in glitter. Bangles, bent into slightly oblong shapes filled her wrists, while strings of brightly coloured beads slowly choked her as they wound tighter and tighter around the rolls of her neck. The contents of her bag had begun to leak out, but she didn’t seem to care. It was like her life was on offer to any who bothered to snatch it up. She knew they wouldn’t.

She looked vague, like she had switched off, feeling life was just too hard. She’d probably been brought up in a family with lots of other children. Quiet. Shy. Her only way of standing out was the outlandish clothes she wore. Her stamp of individuality. Life, in all likelihood, wouldn’t have gotten easier for her as she grew. Finding herself in and out of lover’s arms collecting addictions as she went. Alcohol would have been her drug of choice. Cheap and legal but still powerful enough to blur the hours of nothing into passing seconds. Like sleep, allowing escape and offering protection from stretching loneliness. She most probably spoke seldom, a lacking self-confidence convincing her she had nothing of interest to say.

I sat down on the bench beside her, giving her an encouraging smile, letting her know that there was someone out there who saw her and possibly even cared. Despite her strange appearance I could tell she was a good woman, just starved of the right conditions to thrive. Given the fortunate opportunities that I had, I was sure she would have turned out just like my Nanna.

I liked her.

“You a lesbian?”
My hand automatically flew up and felt my closely cropped hair and I laughed nervously at her bluntness.
“No”
“Short hair. No Makeup. Little bit chubby round the middle. You sure you ain't a lesbian?”
“Yep, pretty sure thanks.”
“Well I guess we can’t all be the pretty ones right? You know Darwin. Survival of the fittest and all. Ugly’s just natures way of separating us all so eventually the good lookin’ ones will survive.”

I was shocked that my Nanna-like creature could actually be so obnoxious. I couldn’t believe how wrong I was about her, but I nodded politely, actually hoping my silence would discourage her from continuing.

She spied my Coles green bag.
“It’s all about saving the fuckin environment these days”
“I know, that fucking environment. What’s it done for us lately?”
My sarcasm was lost on her and I realised that I had just fuelled her anger. I berated myself for attempting to be witty.
“Exactly! It’s getting hotter, which means I had to invest in a brand new wardrobe this summer. The environment gonna pay for that? Nah. And then I can’t even get a cleaning guy to come and clean the gunge off my pool so I can cool me’ self down. You wanna save the environment? Come round and clean me pool, that’s an environmental hazard I’d like to see cleaned. I’d donate to a guy rattling a tin for the freaking “Clean Our Pools Foundation”.

She elbowed me in the ribs, laughter shaking the Lycra covered rolls that tumbled down her midsection.

“Now just don’t get me started on those dole bludgers. I mean I have always…”
I jumped up, waving at an imaginary friend across the road, excusing myself before things could get worse.

I hated her.

Have the Vet Students lost their Bunnies?

There are bunnies.
Loose at Murdoch.

Spotted with my own eyes several times now. They aren't your regular 'curse Thomas Austin and his yearning for plentiful hunting sport' type rabbits, infested with mexamatosis, but your cuddly type rabbit, long floppy ears and sporting neat little blue jackets, straight out Beatrix Potter. Okay so I was lying about the jackets, but my point being is that if one of them came up to me and introduced itself as Peter Rabbit, I wouldn't be that surprised. They are obviously pet rabbits because on my second spotting I almost stood on one. It didn't flinch, just looked up at me lazily and then continued to chew away at a dying patch of grass.

I was captivated by this phenomenon. Who owned these rabbits? Had they escaped from being tortured with lipstick and blush by the Vet Students? (I forwardly apologise to any vet students reading. Please do not send me angry emails, because I am only kidding. Unless of course that is what you do down there in your secret section of the campus, which I am yet to explore, then I say "Shame on you". :)) Or had someone been followed to school one day, by not a lamb, as in Mary's case, but by a mob of random rabbits?

I enjoy my weekly rabbit spotting, each time adding a different bunny face to my mental collection of the Murdoch Rabbits. In fact I should consider creating a photographic account of these furry wonders. A double whammy, because I could then hand it is as my Photography portfolio due in a mere few weeks.

I only hope this Bunny Invasion doesn't get out of control and we end up with something like this.

If that happens, I may have to become an external student.

So if anyone has either spotted these bunnies, or has an explanation to why they are there, then please contact me. I must know.

I shall never call a cold ‘the flu’ again.

Growing up I always referred to a cold as ‘the flu’ knowing fully well that with it came far more pity and flat lemonade to soothe my ailing self. A cold seemed to be something that you could just work through. A cough here, a sniffle there. As long as you kept your bodily fluids to yourself people expected you to carry on as normal. The flu however involved sweating, soup and sympathy. Something that is far more desirable not only to a 10 year old trying to get out of the swimming carnival, where the only event they would compete in was the compulsory 25 metre doggy paddle, but to many an adult alike. Many an occasion in my working life have I called in sick, upgrading my cold to the flu simply to avoid the interrogation that comes when they think you’re faking it. Now I am not condoning calling in with a fake sickness, just simply to elevate your simple sickness to one that sounds far more worthy of a day in bed.

This being said, I, in my 25 years of life, have somehow managed to avoid the actual body aching, head exploding, elderly killing flu. So proud I was of this fact that I had considered making a t-shirt exclaiming this achievement, like some kind of demented expression of my resilience, reminiscent of a particular species of baboon that proudly displays a red splendour on it’s chest to suggest, to potential mates, his virility. Whether or not this would work for me was never determined as my t-shirt plans were recently dispelled by my first ever experience of The Flu.

It came quick, swiftly knocking me down while I was still convincing myself that I had just a cold. My head, thick and slow, shot pain behind my eyes and down my spine. Complete stillness brought no relief as bright lights filled my vision and tested my constitution. Chills plagued my body as I lay in trackies, a jumper and ugg boots, in front of the heater wrapped in a blanket, while thirst tormented me, as my stomach rejected water.

Nine days passed in a blur of tissues, vomit, self-pity and stacks of weekly DVD’s collected diligently by my housemate. After shlumping through the haze and beginning to come out the other side, drastically weakened, but well informed about the early years of Baywatch, my thoughts returned to assignments. Though The Flu had stopped my life for 9 days, it had unfortunately left uni life to continue on without me. A glance at my colour-coded timetables immediately informed me to the fact that I had 3 assignments due anon, each demanding my attention and intelligent thought immediately. I staggered at the idea of catching up, a seemingly impossible task that time would simply not permit me to complete. Falling behind was always a fear of mine, one extension granted would simply cut into the time I had allocated for the next assignment, pushing each one back until I found myself collecting shopping trolleys for a living.

I re-scheduled, I planned, I drew up even more colour coded tables hoping that their organisation would magically create more time. Each table spoke worse than the last, their conclusions all the same. I would have to put aside my fear and ask for a couple of extensions. As I typed the emails, instead of increasing my anxiety and causing me to research Ockey Straps and the Idiot’s Guide to Trolley Steering, I found myself relaxing, smiling oddly at my computer, whilst whistling nasally to myself, bringing on a post flu coughing fit. Once my extensions were granted and plausible timetables for their completion were drawn up I realised that perhaps extensions weren’t as scary as I had made them out to be. Just like Return to Oz, which I had rented out during The Flu, a movie that tormented and disturbed me as a child. Scenes of Wheelers and Queen Mombi with the 30 heads had spent 20 years polluting my mind and tainting my soul all because I had thought it was going to be just like the Wizard of Oz, with it’s dancing munchkins and shiny brick road, each turn celebrated with a catchy tune. How wrong I was. After so long of allowing Return to Oz to be placed in my mind along side horror flicks and deranged art works, I decided to give it a chance, after all I was a fully grown adult now. The first 20 minutes filled me with dread as each twist and turn in the plot brought back strong memories of fear, like certain smells or sounds can do. But as it progressed, although it was far darker than the original Wizard, it wasn’t as scary as my 5-year-old brain had thought it was. The experience that I had thought would be painful ended up being…well enjoyable. So although I may not find my assignments, complete with extensions, enjoyable, I no longer fear that falling a little behind and asking for help will necessarily end up with me asking “Do you want fries with that?”