O'Week
I was cocooning myself, with thick, soft carpet beneath me and plush damask curtains as my cocoon walls. Warm streaks of sunlight pushed through the edges of my walls. It was a little past midday on a beautiful summer’s day and you could tell. I was so sweaty and hot splayed on my bedroom floor. I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail to get it off my sweaty neck and face. I was ready to relish hours of lovely solitude. I tried hard to think of nothing. In yoga they said to have a clear mind and to bring your thoughts back when they start to wander. What were you meant to think of if your thoughts weren’t allowed to wander? Telling your brain to think of nothing seemed counterintuitive. My thoughts were brought back from their wanderings by my phone’s vibrations beneath my right calf. I was comforted by the thought that one of my friends wanted to talk to me but I also didn’t want to talk. I let it buzz under my leg until it rung out. The thought of having to small talk and be charming and forge friendships and “network” and make the most of uni life filled me with genuine dread. I could imagine myself failing at it so vividly that my body responded, blood rushed to my face just thinking about it. Someone would strike up a conversation as I stood on my own and I would respond but wouldn’t contribute enough for the conversation to grow and then the connection would drop, and they would move onto more successful social interactions and I’d stand there mute on my own once again.
Teachers, friends, family – they all said this was going to be when it was all going to happen. Supposedly university was the thrilling period where you became your true self. It sounded overreaching. My happy week of solitude was a nice way to counteract all the social expectations that lay ahead. I was lapping up being alone but had the sudden itch to leave my hot shell. It was a truly beautiful day outside, an idyllic summer’s day, and I wanted to enjoy the sunshine completely on my own.
I sought through my messy floor for a pretty bikini, the perfect swimwear choice for an afternoon of frolicking in the ocean. What you wear and how you feel you look (or at least think you look) makes all the difference feeling comfortable in your own skin around other people. This is why I was addicted to acquiring new things to wear. Shopping was my guilty pleasure when I was sad. Having armour of pretty clothes can help you a lot on a shy day or a down day. I opted for my orange and black triangle bikini. I liked how it fit on my body. I was skinny with little breasts. I didn’t hate my body, sometimes I thought it looked nice, but that’s different to being sexy. This bikini sat firm against my skin without being too tight, and everything felt like it was held in place. For proper, ocean swimming fun you can’t be worrying about your top skewing loose when the waves get a little rough. I threw on a white and blue floral patterned crop top and my favourite, over-worn pair of stonewashed high waisted denim shorts. I was ready to venture out of my room for the first time in hours.
“Oh I know, don’t they just smell beautiful? Smell the Chai Latte scent, that’s my favourite one.”
“Oh yes, very cinnamony!”
My mum was slicing up banana bread for her friends. They were three sweet, tanned women in their early forties wearing Lorna Jane gym wear, drinking tea and enjoying each other’s sameness and company.
“Oh you’re here sweetheart! I thought it was Orientation Week?”
“They do all that sort of stuff in the first week now. I don’t need to go I’m not missing out on anything.”
I didn’t feel bad lying to my parents and I did it systematically. It didn’t feel like I was doing anything wrong. My lies were to keep them from worrying about things I felt they didn’t need to. Why stress her out about something that didn’t matter? These types of lies came easily and without guilt.
“You’re going to the beach then?”
“Yeah I won’t be home too late.”
“Okay have fun gorgeous!”
I stripped down and spread out in the sunshine. I could feel the sunshine sink all the way down to my bones. It was the middle of summer and I was brown. I was brown all over with brown eyes flecked with gold and light brown hair with sun-bleached ends. I was both tanned and very, very freckly but couldn’t stop myself from always being out in the sun. The result was my collection of freckles grew and grew. I was lying on my tummy lazily flicking through the latest Cosmo when I spotted Jarrod. He was holding a girl’s hand and she was very pretty. She was tall and busty, and even from afar I could see she had a nice, wide smile filled with a perfect set of big white teeth. This new girl was taller than Jarrod and walked with such obvious confidence.
I absently turned the pages of the magazine but my eyes followed them as they strolled, side by side along the beach. I felt a small flush of hot panic in the pit of my stomach as they started plodding in my direction but I was fairly certain Jarrod hadn’t seen yet. I hoped that he’d just keep going on his way and not see me. I didn’t feel like dealing with that interaction. The happy pair continued to come closer. I alternated between looking away to try and avoid eye contact but also couldn’t seem to stop myself from watching them. Jarrod’s eyes locked with mine. It happened. We had both quite obviously seen each other, but he cleared his throat and hurriedly looked away. Apparently he was even more intent on not seeing me than I was of not seeing him and it stung. I knew it was unreasonable but I was angry.
“Jarrod! Hi!” I called out. He was far enough away that I was raising my voice louder than a normal ‘hello’ required but I felt the need for acknowledgement from this douche. I hated the awkward and insincere, obligatory catch-up conversations we usually had. Apparently I hated that he acted ashamed to see me even more. The girl holding Jarrod’s hand paused a beat, she wasn’t sure if they were meant to stop and say hi or continue. Jarrod held up his hand as casual ‘hey’ but he was clearly intent on not sticking around for more of an interaction than that. He continued forward in long strides with the girl’s hand in his.
Satisfied that I’d at least flustered him a little I tried to go back to the article in front of me, ‘What His Valentine’s Pressie Means Really Means…’ The silly article wasn’t enough to stop my thoughts festering unhappily. I pictured Jarrod resting his head on my naked stomach as we lay together in the back of his car. His head had been quite heavy and breathing with him on my tummy wasn’t easy, but I still liked feeling the weight of him on me. We were out for hours that night. Most of it was spent with me vacantly admiring his boyish good looks while he chatted, and bragged and laughed. He was carefree and so happy being himself and I missed being around that. I didn’t just miss his being I missed his body too. My favourite thing in the whole world was the feel of a boy’s body. In my mind I loved to linger here, on the thought of broad shoulders and stringy muscled arms that encompassed me and held me tight and together. In my private thoughts I would think embarrassingly pathetic things all the time, things like: ‘how do you capture the attention of a beautiful boy and keep him?’ Some people love people watching but I couple watched. I obsessively and longingly watched how couples interacted with each other. I paid attention to how hands would gravitate towards each other, how lovingly and intently one half would look at the other half during a conversation. I watched couples because I was both comforted by the ease of their affection and incredibly jealous of it. I loved the comfort of a wide hand firmly holding the side of my waist and of warm, wet kisses on my neck. I have felt these things before but never in a steady, secure way. I’ve never had them in the form of a reliable and loving boyfriend. The idea of having a stationary someone who you lusted for and loved seemed so foreign and unattainable.
As much as I craved boys I also hated them though, which means thinking about boys took up even more of my brain space. From my experiences I knew they could be so uncaring and unfeeling but what angered me the most was that they could get away so undamaged without even trying. My euphoric mood had turned to sweaty and grumpy. I stood up and walked down to the water, watching my feet tread through the sand. I knew the ocean would help cool my body and mind.
The waves were beautiful. They formed big, full arcs before they broke and dissipated into white foam. I went out to meet them eagerly, doing a shallow dive just beneath the first one that was big enough to threaten tossing me around. I felt the top of the wave churn above me and grabbed two fistfuls of rough sand on the ocean floor and let the grains run through my fingers. I rose to the surface imagining myself as a graceful mermaid coming up for a breath of fresh air, with a subtle hair flick at the end. I frolicked with the waves and let my worries about next week wash out to sea. They were getting further and further away with every crashing wave. There never was, nor never will be, a better rejuvenator than the beach.
