For as long as I can remember, I’ve been strongly opposed to change. I don’t care if it’s big, small or for the better; I’d rather things just stayed the same. Call me anal, but I don’t see much point in fixing something that isn’t broken. Is that really such a bad thing? Well, I’ve recently come to realise that it just might be.
When I was a young girl (I can’t remember what age), my parents decided to re-tile the bathroom. On the first day of renovations, the tiler popped outside for a cigarette. I snuck into the dusty room (no longer recognisable) with a master plan to intervene. I dragged two boxes of the new white tiles down the hallway and hid them underneath my single bed. I made five trips in total, and managed to successfully remove all tiles from the bathroom before the tiler’s return. You can imagine his confusion when he did just that. In just five minutes, ten large boxes of tiles amounting to an unfathomable dollar value had miraculously disappeared. I remember him calling out to my mother, followed by a heated discussion using naughty words I wasn’t supposed to know. My mother blamed the tiler, the tiler blamed my mother, and I blamed my evil parents. My mother eventually cottoned on, as mothers tend to do. The hidden tiles were revealed and in a few painful days the old black and white bathroom became just white. Change had swallowed me whole and scarred me for life.
A similar incident occurred a few years later when my parents decided to take down the cubby house, chop down the apple tree and put a swimming pool in the backyard. Oh, how I cried and cried! I hung rainbow coloured posters in the living room and in my parent’s bedroom in protest: “Pools Are Not Cool!” “If You Put In A Pool, I Will Not Go To School!” “Pool: Get Fucked!” You can imagine my heartbreak when my parents went ahead and put a huge hole where the grass had been. How could they? Did they even love me? Although I did come to enjoy that damn pool for seven memorable childhood summers, I never fully forgave my parents. In fact, I’ve loved them just that little bit less ever since.
So now you have a sound idea of the extent to which I disapprove of change. Rather, the extent to which I did disapprove of change until, well, things changed.
In my last post I mentioned my moving away from home. In the past two weeks my life has undergone more changes than in the previous twenty-three years all together. I now live independently from my parents. I cook my own meals. I sleep on the opposite side of the bed due to its position against the wall. I walk new streets and meet new, unfamiliar faces. There are eight million people in this city; four times the population of the city from which I moved. It takes twice as long to get anywhere; sometimes three times. The road rules are different. People pronounce “here” and “dance” differently…wrongly. The coffee tastes different…better. Each day I make little discoveries; a book store, a small piece of street art at the train station, a charming barista. Each day I become more familiar with new people, places, things. Each day I become more accustomed to change.
What I’m getting at is this: I hadn’t realised how necessary change was until I left my comfortable bubble and made it happen. Don’t get me wrong; some things will never change. I will always start my day with two Weet-Bix. I will always favour even numbers over odd. I will always wear my hair straight, no matter how many people tell me they prefer it curly. But other things may never be the same again, and that’s a wonderful thing!