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I never thought that I would suffer from the dreaded midlife crisis, but here I am writing a post about my privileged, upper middle class existential blip. Please feel free to kick me, or heckle. I won’t say I deserve it, but I’m happy to be given the boot up the back-side to knock me out of this stupor.

I have been feeling a little lost of late, and thought I would go to Sydney to catch up with my Hungry Ghosts (it’s a TV show I’m on) family to keep my mind busy, and do some searching, the soul kind of searching, you know?

Some of the Hungry Ghosts family

Straight after yum cha, because, of course one needs to have yum cha with ones family in Sydney, we went and saw the wonderful Gabby Chan in the amazing play developed by Darlinghurst Theatre Company, ‘I’m With Her‘ . You must see it, if you haven’t. A very powerful piece of theatre with important social themes about empowering women, and a call to arms, because it’s time.

Post performance pictures with Gabby Chan (second from the right)

To the thirteen men who turned up to the matinee season on Saturday, 30 November, thank you. This includes a special thanks to Shawn Seet, our beloved director of the TV show Hungry Ghosts, who has seen ‘I’m With Her’, twice now. I also found out Shawn’s wife, Sarah, was pivotal in setting up the theatre where the show is currently playing. Oh, the gods are smiling.

Fired up from the play, I headed back to the hotel to find a very ironic ‘meet cute‘ moment waiting for me, just like in the movies, when boy meets girl (or boy, or girl meets girl), under testing circumstances. The receptionist at the hotel either had had enough that day looking to exact revenge on unbeknownst guests, or was feeling particularly mischievous. Either way, she booked me into the same room as a total, and thoroughly handsome stranger by the name of Hawkin (I could have spelt that wrong), on his way to Coffs Harbour from Darwin, with two very large suitcases.

I arrived in room 209, first, and with one look at the busy main Street directly outside my window, turned right around to go down to reception to get another room. But alas, the twist of fate arrives, in the form of a tall, brooding Eurasian looking man. As I am about to turn the door handle, in comes Hawkin.

Momentary silence.

“Don’t tell me she booked us into the same room”, this handsome stranger says.

“Why yes, it looks like she has”, says the equally good looking me. “Come, let’s go down, together. I don’t think the both of us and your very large suitcases are going to fit into this one room”, says I.

Pleasantries are exchanged, of course, to make civil a very uncivilized predicament.

So we got reallocated to different rooms, and thought that was the end of it, but, of course, not! Fate would not allow this. I imagine that at this point my husband who I’m sure reads all my posts dutifully, is currently either very amused by this retelling of an extraordinary tale, or is sweating bullets, or is plotting to do one better than me. He is very competitive, you see.

Back to Hawkin. It is 9:06am the following morning, too late to catch the 9:00am shuttle to the airport and too early to catch the 10am one. Here is I, clueless as usual, stumbling out of my room and to the elevator to check out, when, bump.

“Oh, hello. Lovely to see you, again. I thought you had a 7am flight?”, questions I, the nosy busy body. Hawkin, looking confused, shocked, and maybe a little worried.

“No. I’m on the 10 (something or rather) flight”. I was no longer paying any attention, at this point (sorry, Hawkin), wondering how peculiar this meeting was turning out to be. Melodramatic thoughts of multiple colours and various shades whirl passed. Yes, the mind of a creative does interesting things when left alone, or in an elevator with a good looking specimen of a human being.

No, we didn’t exchange phone numbers, or twitter accounts, or TikTok details. Not appropriate, people! If our business is still unfinished, the universe will find us another opportunity. Have you never seen a rom-com?

Anyway, so I arrive early to the airport by taxi, only after the driver says his EFTPOS machine doesn’t work and would I mind paying in cash. Well, yes, I would mind, because it’s a Sunday, and I’m an apple pay, card slinging kinda gal, fella. We had to drive to a McDonald’s so I could get some cash to pay the wonderfully unfortunate taxi driver, who I imagine will really struggle, today. I gave him a 20 cent tip, to ease the trauma of the transaction.

As I browsed the aisles of the news agency by gate 59 at the airport, I came across a book by Michelle Obama titled, Becoming. Curious.

Becoming by Michelle Obama

And here we are. Day 1, at gate 59, the beginning of 159 days of journal writing, on our Pixel phone, guided by the former first lady of the United States of America. There are no coincidences. Believe it.

If I have not yet became, I soon will become, as I learn to just be, one. With me. Jokes, and jollies aside, I do hope to find my voice over the next few months and I wish you great enjoyment from my silly, quirky brain, as it battles to make sense of the inner workings of itself, entirely at my expense.

A page from Michelle Obama’s book, Becoming