Moving into the real world

I had a dream the other night. I dreamt that I was in a huge, warehouse-like furniture store. I was with my sister and we were looking at those bedroom sets which are on display and give you the impression that for a moment you actually live there. We sauntered along from one “room” to another, admiring the various furnishings and carvings in the wood. Taking a wrong turn, I found myself in an area different to the previous one I had been standing in; this time there were chests of drawers and lampshades. Poking out of one of the draws was a pair of blue boxer shorts that had an odd triangle design sewn into them. My intuition told me that I had to seek out a sales assistant to cut along the perimeter of the triangle. So I went in search of a person who bore the furniture stores’ logo, and I requested that she help me to complete the task that was required of me. That’s when realised that I was the only customer in the store, for as I turned around to look at my surroundings, there were sales assistants and store workers everywhere, going about their jobs and being useful, while I stood there like a lump, every passer-by failing to notice me. That’s when I woke up.

The images conjured in our minds during the course of our sleep are said to resemble how we feel in our waking life, or that they have some kind of connection to it somehow. Being the incredibly analytical person that I am, more often than not I find myself coming out of my dream state with an extreme curiosity at what I just saw. What I think my furniture store dream represents is my underlying desire to work. Sometimes I feel as though I am cruising through my teenage years, going shopping and looking at art deco and what not, while others my age are slaving away in shops all over the place, earning money to pay for their future car and so they can independently purchase goods with their own savings, rather than relying on their parents like me. The sales assistants that were all around me in my dream represented these people, moving into the adult world, as I stood where I was, not even attempting to break out of the comforts of parental assistance when it comes to money.

Why does it seem like I am the only fifteen year old out there without a job? Whenever I’m in a public place that has shops about, I am forever noticing customers being served by someone who goes to high school, or worse, looks even younger than me – one of those fresh-faced fifteen year olds' in year nine who has their birthday before everyone else.  Most of my friends work, using their own bank cards to pay for clothes and food on those outings we go on together. On one occasion a friend of mine even gasped when I produced a $50 note from my cash-filled purse to pay for some sushi. “Wow, how much money do you earn Simone?” was her response. Awkwardly enough, I had to inform her that the money was given to me by my parents to pay for today, where she gave me a look of disapproval, obviously objecting the spoilt-little-girl thing I appeared to have going on with my parents. Not that I am spoilt. I mean, in our household we use our own money to pay for things. Like, whenever I receive Christmas or birthday money, my parents record it under my name, and whenever me or my sister buy new perfume or clothes, that amount is deducted from the original amount. Though when you compare me to the friend who has her own savings account, where she can deposit her hard-earned wages into, my situation with money looks pretty pathetic, really.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to work and make money, in fact, I’m looking into applying for a job, to add another extracurricular activity to keep my schedule full. The thought that keeps crossing my mind though, is what if I’ve left it too late? What happens if all of the places I apply to have no jobs on offer and reject me? What if I am forever unemployed for the rest of my life because I failed to kick-start my career when I was fifteen? I know, I’m overreacting. But seriously. Let’s put this into perspective here. People are forever quitting casual and part time jobs, so a vacant position is bound to come up sooner or later. If I do get rejected, then I’ll try someplace else, no big deal.

Neither of my parents had jobs when they were my age. Both entered the workforce as adults, studying part time in their early twenties – and look at them now. My mum managed to afford a unit after saving for years, right? Hopefully I’ve inherited her money-managing ways. And realistically speaking, there are others out there, who are even older than me in year eleven and twelve, who don’t have jobs. That doesn’t make them any less of a person. Maybe they don’t have time and already have their plates full? There is no written rule that you have to work when you are fifteen. Anyway, if I don’t finish this post soon, all of the job vacancies out there really will disappear. Reality, here I come...

These things don't just happen

Sometimes things happen to us which make us wonder “Since when was my life a movie?”  I’m talking about those moments that have only existed as of now in your head, fantasies which you can dream about and have complete control over how wonderfully perfect they play out.  An occurrence like the above moments happened to me today, but definitely not the way I saw it in my own mind.  It was ridiculously scary how it came to be. So it’s an ordinary school lunchtime, I’m casually pacing the school with close friends, bump into other friends and decide to sit with them instead – it’s a common practise. Nonchalantly striking up conversation about classes we’re taking and outings we’ve been on when our conversation is directed down the way of my undying love for a certain person. Seems like the whole class knows by now, the way I get hysterical if he even makes eye contact with me. I’m so childish. Must learn to master the art of confidence and learn to have a friendly presence among those I meet. Like him I suppose, with his gentle nature and golden hair, the way he wears his shorts and tie...moving on with my recount.
We’re laughing about how awkwardly psyched I can get when he is around, when a familiar glint of gold appears in the corner of my eyes. OH MY GOSH! He is in the vicinity, keep breathing, act normal, don’t make it obvious you’re ogling his athletic physique, but wait – are those words coming out of his mouth being directed our way? Regaining control of my brain, my ears are telling me yes. He repeats himself.“Hey, girls, can you please get our ball over there?” Huh? Oh right, the ball he was using to oh-so-athletically play down ball with on the courts which I was briskly looking over to before. One of my friends gets to her feet, abruptly stopping herself to kindly point out that I should be the one who returns his ball. Managing to uncoordinatedly stand, I realise my left leg has fallen asleep and a rush of prickly blood flows down my left side, paining me. Attempting to motion over to where he patiently leans on the fence, I’m unable to make eye contact, hobbling like a crippled person at a snail’s pace. I’ve made it to the garden bed, yet are failing to notice any ball contained within the leafy undergrowth. “Where is it? Oh, I see it...is that it?” I squeak. My voice is caught in my throat and barely audible to my own ears. The inability to meet his blue eyes is still upon me and I collect the ball from the plants, standing up on the stone wall that encloses the flower bed. I extend my arm to throw the ball, probably higher than necessary and incredibly close to the fence, and it just makes it over. Damn short genes.
 Overcome by shock at how close I have come to this handsome boy, I immediately jump back onto the path and scurry back to where my friends are sitting, or more like hunched over, heaving for breath between red-faced bursts of laughter. I make out the sound of his voice behind me “Thanks, girls!” (He has such manners) followed by the patter of his feet back to his own mates. As I began to comprehend what took place in the last few minutes that lunchtime, my head fell into my hands with utter embarrassment and awkward shame. I can only assume how shocked I would have appeared before my crush, as my friends failed to watch on, simply too choked by the unrealistic hilarity of it all. How did I not even look at him? Where did my conversational small talk voice go? Why hadn’t I at least smiled at the irresistible one? Regret filled me as I overanalysed that scene over and over in my mind for the rest of the afternoon. Even sitting here, writing this, I think of what an impression I could have made. If only in those split seconds I behaved normally. Or perhaps it is in my personality to transform into the ultimate derp whenever a gorgeous guy is around. Who knows? Looks as though I have a lot of practice to do until fate decides we shall meet again. Whenever that is.