Things that annoy me are picking up dog poo, people who don’t pick up their dog’s poo and over-sweating. I’d put over-smiling on that list too, but I feel like I’ve done everything possible to quell that habit, at least for photos anyway. It’s not like I can’t do any of these things, but they just seem to interrupt the natural flow of general life enthusiasm and for that, I’d like them banished.
Sure, the dog poo thing is basically unavoidable and pretty much the bane of #doglife but they’re worth it and so is the exercise from dog walking and the maturity gained from the experience of street-strolling with a plastic bag full of dung trying really hard not to look too desperate for the next bin.
But over-sweating, now here’s a sexy paragraph. Because I am simply the image of picturesque and classic beauty, there are little yellow stains on the underarms of white shirts that no amount of detergent or bleach will remove. One wear, and BAM, forever tainted and this is a legitimate factor when deciding what to wear (life hack – do this night before because mental preparation is golden!). Will there be many occurrences of hand-above-head activity today? Can I wear a jumper over this? Am I around people whom I care about seeing evidence of my perspiratory fluids? Muuuuuuuum help me.
For years I was convinced I was an over-active perspirer – my pores just hate me, it’s genetic, I’m just simply too hot (yeah, mate), God made you like this for a reason (bless). I told all this to my teenage self who was defined by comparison to the other girls and the overall perception that ‘ladylike’ was the ultimate life goal. WHERE IS THEIR SWEATY UPPER LIP? There was none of that sexy tired yawn stretching that they all did on the bus where their shirt would ride up to expose a little touch of bare skin that might as well have sung and popped streamers for the magnetic hold it had over hormonal boys. Instagram, you have been absolutely zero help in this life department (although excellent at interesting native floral arrangements).
Now that I’m a sophisticated nearly-twenty year-old with immaturity and high school behind me (wait, are they Blue Water High re-runs!?), what I’ve learnt is this: bringing deodorant with you is an okay thing to do and being enthusiastic about things often makes you sweat and this is also an okay thing. In fact, enthusiasm is more than okay, it’s bloody terrific and I’d take it over any non-sweating armpits all the time. Perhaps I’ll rethink this once summer really takes hold but today this is my declaration: ENTHUSIASM IS REALLY TERRIFIC!
Mum thinks that I get vey vey excited about things because I’m a “new soul” on this earth and I act like I’m doing everything for the first time. This is in contrast to those wise old people who simply know how to fill up a petrol tank from the minute they’re born. I doubted this theory very much until I got to uni, because it turns out lectures are apparently an acceptable time to sleep and people don’t actually talk to each other on the train in awe that every life moment has led us all to be on this one carriage joyfully and blissfully together. I resent this position of lecture-wallowing and public transport, because we miss out on the opportunity to LEARN LEARN LEARN and talk to grandmas on the train about knitting patterns and their sixteen grandkids.
Don’t even try to hush me or my mind once we get into the city, especially at night time, because the sounds and the sites and (dare I say it) the smells are just so glorious and magical and YES THAT IS A 24/7 STATIONARY SHOP! Also, more bonuses, you get a really good sleep at night because you’re might is pretty exhausted from being eternally blown away with wonder and discovering German words that are really good for explaining English-intolerant phenomenons.
Slight downfalls: the sweating (obvs), the over-smiling (can be combatted) and getting strange looks and unanswered-groupchats when people don’t share your passion for holiday-countdowns or lying on the grass in the sun during your lunch break. There may also be days of bleak un-excitement, like funerals or grand final losses, where you’re actually really hating on kookaburras waking you up naturally and that is also acceptable, because sleep and bitterness can be your enthusiasms for that day.
But hold up, people who roll their eyes when I haven’t finished at the breakfast buffet yet: this stuff is magical, this stuff is our adrenaline and we’re so flipping lucky to be able to feel it every day for good reasons, not terrifying reasons. Go drink some cider and get familiar with your little pod of secret enthusiasm hidden in your sweat glands. And watch out for dog poo.