Today I divorced the wall

Today, I have finally divorced the wall.

Pincha Mayurasana (Forearm stand) is a pose I have always wanted to be able to do freely because it challenges my three weak spots - neck, shoulders and lower back. And if I could "conquer" this pose, it would mean I have become stronger in both body and mind. Kicking up into inversion poses when there is a wall was not a problem because I felt secured but once I've married to the wall, I miss the real learnings from falling.

Since I've resumed practicing power vinyasa (against Chiropractor's and Osteopath's order, oh well, that's a story for another time) for two months, I believed it was time for me to get out of my comfort zone and be more adventurous with my practice - that means facing my fear of falling head-on.

So I joined this Inversion and Handstand workshop at the park today and hoped for some breakthrough. After a long guided warm-up sequence, we were instructed to practise inversions on our own.

"Okay, this is it!" I puffed my chest up, clenched my fists and proclaimed.

Then, of course, came those memories, doubts, worries and a lot of procrastination. A lot.

"I might injure my neck again if not break it!" (haunted by the memories of some old non-yoga injures)

"I might hurt my wrists and lower back when I land in Wheel (a deep backbending pose to protect you when you flip over)!"

"I would make a fool of myself! How scary..."

"I don't wanna fall; it would be painful..."

On and on.

With these dialogues in my head, I made some feeble kick-ups, unlike my normally firm kicks with wall, fearing that I would flip over. I continued to make feeble attempts, wipe sweat off, look around, stare at the mat, and whisper to myself, "yes, you can do it! Even if you fall, you're on soft grass!"

But as everyone knows, fear doesn't have to make sense. I continued to procrastinate.

Then my friends, who had just arrived, came to my rescue. God knows what I would have achieved in the next 30 minutes other than starring at the mat and wiping sweat off if they hadn't come. One of them stood by to assist me in case I fell, so I felt secured to kick firmly into the pose. Physically, it felt good. But in my heart I asked, "How could I succumb to my fear again? When will I ever have the guts?"

After awhile under the brutal sun and heat, we strayed from the crowd and rested under the shade of a small tree. I sat down and circled the grass around me with my hands and feet, "oh god, this feels so good!" I said. I couldn't remember when was the last time I touched or stepped on grass with my bare skin. Suddenly, feeling empowered by the nature, I stood up, set up my forearms on the grass and tried kicking up again. I was just trying to fall and not so much in getting the pose. I wanted to fall. But after another few feeble kicks, I paused.

"Damn! I was trying to fall, but I was SO scared of falling that I didn't even allow myself to kick hard enough to be able to fall," I said.

"If you are trying to fall, you are not really doing a good job," my friend Michael said.

"Oh yes you're right! I was "trying"!" I said, "that's the problem! I should just fall!"

Laughing at my own realization, I set my forearms down, engaged my upper body muscles, lifted my core and hips, pushed the forearms into the grass, and firmly kick up into my forearm stand. I hoovered a little bit at the full pose and then slowly let my weight dropping more and more forward and fell onto the grass in a backbend.

It was easy.

I sat there for a moment to savor the experience before I DO another falling.

"This is actually a lot of fun!" I said, beaming like a kid.

It became clear to me that trying to fall was the problem. "Try" is the curse in everything. Just fall.

***

Falling is a great lesson I've learnt from yoga. Falling is not scary; the fear of falling is.  Fear holds you back; falling frees you.

Before my first fall, I was so preoccupied by illusions and self-doubts that I didn't even dare to go for success, as in standing tall in the full pose. The truth was - I had way more backbend and strength needed to protect myself from the fall than I allowed myself to believe in. And our body instinct will just know exactly what to do when we get our mind out of the way.

My yoga asana (body poses) practice is a great tool for me to understand myself and reflect. From my practice,  I see how I've carried the same fear of failure to everything I do - golf, changing careers, relationships, writing etc. For years, my fear of failure have led me into a lot of self-doubts and inaction.

Nonetheless, fear is not evil; it is just our natural mechanism to defend and protect. A warrior is not necessary someone who is fearless. Rather, it's someone who is courageous - acting even in the face of fear.

It takes guts to be a true warrior.

Bobbi's Babes

*(This is an article that I wrote in November 2010)

Two weeks ago, I travelled over 4500 miles from Hong Kong to Sydney, as an Asian nerd, to pursue my master degree. Even though these two cities were not too far apart, I didn’t know what to expect from this major city Down Under. After a few days of apartment-hunting, I moved in with a 30-year-old Aussie girl called Sarsha, who was a neurologist with Dutch and Lebanese roots. Sarsha had a full head of highlighted braids. She usually tied part of her hair up high, which added a few inches to her already impressive height.

And tonight, I was going to watch Sarsha’s pole dancing performance.

She asked me to be at Bobbi’s Pole Studio, which was next to the former church of Scientology, before 7:30pm.

I stepped into this shabby building, rode the scary elevator that looked like it’d shut down at any second, to the fourth floor. The elevator door opened and all I saw was people. A crowd gathered in front of a half-closed pink door – the doorstopper was a block wrapped in a piece of pink sequin cloth. We heard loud music and cheers blasting from behind the door. We waited and waited.

Finally, the door snapped open. A tall woman in lace lingerie appeared. That was Foxy. We went in and Foxy explained the rundown. It was the end-of-term performance for four levels of classes tonight. Different levels had different costume themes and Sarsha’s level was doing the military look. But regardless of themes, every girl was in bra, undies or hot pants, and those killer heels.

After all levels had showcased what they’d achieved with the past seven weeks of training, it was teacher’s turn to perform. Isabella, a petite brunette with long sleek hair and fair skin, held her chest up, neck long, and glided across the room in shinny knee high boots. Dancing against Linkin Park’s “Leave out all the rest”, she floated around the pole, flipped herself upside down, rested her right ankle on the pole and then brought her toned left leg all the way back, forming an elegant diagonal. Moves that obviously required a tremendous amount of strength, she did them with fluidity, ease and grace. And she still managed to look sultry.

Isabella was also a veterinary nurse at Paddington Cat Hospital.

She had never been an out-going person before she became a “Bobbi’s girl”. She still remembered how nerve-wracking the first hens night that she taught was. She recalled herself thinking “gosh, I hope they don’t see my knees shaking, ‘cause I’m really nervous.”

But pole dancing had made her more confident. And she loved that she could now incorporate her love of dancing into her job, and still had time to care for animals.

After the show, we mucked around in the studio. Sarsha taught me a move or two, and as I put my hands on the pole, hooked my right knee on it and swung into a spin, it struck me how much I had used to love dancing.

The next day, I signed up for class. I’d done a few weeks of beginner pole dancing years ago in Hong Kong – well, just to learn some sexy moves and get fit, so I decided to skip the beginner level at Bobbi’s and went straight to intermediate level one – a brave decision. As it turned out, pole dancing in Sydney is very different from pole dancing in Hong Kong.

Chilli, the multitalented Chilli, who could sing, act, dance, teach and host, was my first teacher. She had long black hair, a hard-core tan and a hot body. She was in her late 30s and she loved her toy boys. For our first class, both Chilli and I were early, so we chitchatted for a while. She asked for my name and I said Ariel.

“That’s a beautiful pole name,” she said.

“Pole name?” I said.

“Oh it’s like a stage name. Like Chilli is my pole name but I’m going to change it legally,” she said .

The first thing that we were asked to do was to get upside down on the pole. My jaw dropped as soon as Chilli asked us to do it.

We gave it a few goes, obviously no one was able to do it as gracefully as Chilli, but no one broke an arm or a leg. Then Chilli, a jazz ballet-trained dancer, took us to this term’s routine – “Kiss Kiss” by Chris Brown. It was a slow, sexy routine with a lot of hip turns, head rolls and back-archings.

Though I was having a lot of fun, I couldn’t follow the routine because I hadn’t been dancing for way too long; while everyone lay on the floor, I was still on the pole doing my own funky stuff. But Roxy, 28, on my left was completely at ease. She was a ballet dancer, singer and actress. She worked with Chilli years ago while Chilli was the store manager of a cosmetics brand. They were one of the first groups to sign up at Bobbi’s. But then Roxy went overseas for a few years while Chilli went all the way to become a teacher.

“Why did you start pole dancing, Chilli?” I asked.

“When I first started, I just thought it’d be a bit more fun, and a way to get fit. And also, the appeal of doing something naughty, doing what strippers do,” said Chilli.

“Do you strip?” I said.

“Only if you ask me nicely,” she said with a wink. “Stripping and pole dancing are completely separate.”

But every now and again, she would do it just for fun – like flashing the window-cleaning dude during teacher training.  The guy then went down, grabbed his mate and came back up again.

For the first lesson, I was wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts. Others were dressing similarly – nothing more revealing than singlets and undies.

Seven weeks had passed and today was our performance class. I invited a girl friend from university, while Roxy invited her mum. Only four girls showed up at this noon class today.

In the routine, there was a move where we were supposed to take our tops off. I had a singlet on top of my sport bra – just in case I was actually brave enough to strip.

On our first go, only Roxy, who had short blonde hair and a voluptuous body, took her top off. Everybody cheered. “Yeah! At least 25 percent of the class are strippers!” said Chilli.

On our second go, I was like “what the hell!”, so I joined Roxy and took my top off. Everyone laughed. Chilli, now a proud teacher, said “great! 50 percent of the class are strippers now!”

After receiving my certificate from Chilli, I could move up to intermediate level two.

Sassy, a sweet and petite lady with curly brown hair and a fairy tattoo on her left shoulder, was my teacher for the term. I couldn’t locate a piece of fat on her but she talked about food constantly.

This term’s routine was “Free your mind” by En Vogue, a funkier, faster and more fun routine. While Sassy was rummaging in her mind to see if we should step left-right-left or right-left-right, the studio door was opened and I saw the reflection of a woman with long sleek blonde hair walking in.

“Hey Bobbi! You come at the right time,” said Sassy. Bobbi, the Bobbi of Bobbi’s Pole Studio, choreographed all the routines of all levels.

So, Bobbi does exist. The fact that you are more likely to see her in videos and photos than at the studio adds enigma to this Australian pole dancing legend.

Bobbi, 42, opened the studio – the first of its kind in Australia – with Vanessa, 39, in 2003. Before then, she had been a cabaret dancer for many years. With her talents in jazz ballet, exotic dancing and choreography, and Vanessa’s business acumen, they turned the tiny pole dancing school from a two-pole facility in a dodgy massage parlour into an empire that consists of six studios across Australia and Asia, the annual Miss Pole Dance Australia competition, Bobbi TV, pole dancing DVDs, merchandise, and Bobbi’s Babes – an entertainers agency.

For two years in a row, the studio was voted Studio of the Year by International Pole Dance Fitness Association.

Bobbi didn’t teach regularly anymore – she spent most of her time and effort on training teachers and choreography. And Bobbi’s choreography was one of the most important things that set the studio apart from the others.

“I’m exotic-dancer-trained, always have been, and that’s my input into what we do, is very sexual and very sensual and I like it, and the students seems to like that,” said Bobbi.

Some students also said Bobbi’s routines were not just sexy but classy. “I think that’s my dance background jumping in there. I can be sexy but I still know the correct posture to be sexy so that it’s not offensive to anyone.”

Sassy guided us throughout the routine with encouragements such as, “Girls you’ve done well!” “Chicky, that’s great!”. She was so warm and sweet that I couldn’t imagine why she was called Sassy.

But Vanessa recalled, in one of the Miss Pole Dance Australia competitions, a drunk contestant who was disqualified because she was drunk punched Bobbi in the face. “Sassy, beautiful, little, pretty Australian, such a lady, got this girl in a headlock, which was really cool,” said Vanessa.

In the middle of this term, we moved from this six-year-old studio to a new one at a more prominent location – right on Elizabeth Street, across Hyde Park. “This has to be THE studio that everyone envies,” said Bobbi.

The theme of the studio is black clashing with sharp pink and sparkles everywhere. On top of the reception, there’s a 42” plasma TV playing Bobbi’s DVDs. Apart from adding a third room to the studio, the biggest improvement of the new studio is that the toilets are now on the same floor as the studio – we no longer need to walk down two floors in our undies to go to the loo.

We, students, were so used to walking in our undies and bras to the toilets that the studio actually had to put up signs to ask us get dressed before we step outside. We don’t want to give those Greek grandfathers walking up and down the stairs in the Hellenic House heart attacks, don’t we?

So, we had our week-eight performance at the new studio and I invited, another girl friend from university. Tonight, I was wearing a black sport bra and my favorite pair of Bond undies. Like a lot of students here, I was getting more and more confident with my body.

I was having a lot of fun and I was starting to shrug off my unease of performing in front of strangers. But I did hope that guy in front of the mirror didn’t think I was flirting with him while I’m doing a series of body rolls  – I was simply checking myself out at the mirror.

After the show, I made it to intermediate level three and Cleo was my teacher. Cleo was 5’9”, and with a pair of six-inch heels, her legs are bloody long. She was the drummer, the capoeira chick, the pole dancing prodigy – she was crowned the champion of Miss Pole Dance Australia only after a little more than four years on the pole. She moved from Melbourne to join Bobbi’s in January 2009.

“When I came to Bobbi’s, I got myself a stage name [Cleo]. I think learning from Bobbi herself and training with all the other teachers just kind of really moulded me to where I’m now. I’m a lot different… a year has made such a difference. I’m just like another person now. Everything, my levels of tricks, as well as the way that I dance, and my individual style, are a lot different,” said Cleo.

“I’ve always aspired to the a Bobbi’s girl, because I thought Bobbi’s girls are the best in the world. Always. I used to go on YouTube all the time, look at their videos.”

This term’s routine is “Sexy Bitch” by David Guetta. I love it. It’s acrobatic, sexy and naughty. Cleo shows us the routine and she radiates energy and power. I envy her presence.

Even though my probability of pulling the whole routine off is less than 50 percent after seven weeks of training, I still invite six friends to come to my performance, because I simply love the routine too much. Bravest of all, I invite the guy that I’m sort of seeing.

Tonight is a big night because three levels are performing together. Chilli, in a set of red-hot lingerie with silk ribbons, dazzles the crowd without even dancing. “Oh my god, Chilli is so hot,” says James Lie, my 21-year-old guy friend, who is exactly within Chilli’s toy boy range.

To capture the essence of “Sexy Bitch”, I’m wearing a black bikini top with diamontes and a pair of purple sequin hot pants. With my sparkling silver stripper heels, I’m ready.

I swing myself into a spinning climb, dangle my body with just two hands close to my chest. When the lyrics hit “whore”, I flip myself upside down and spread my legs wide to form an inverted “V”. I then hook my left knee on the pole, pressed my right hip forward against the pole, arched my back, drop my head and let my hands go – just hanging there with my left leg. Now the lyrics hit “disrespectful”, I swing my right leg forward with pointed toes, and swap my left leg with my right into a right-leg hang on the pole. I let myself go, feeling the rush of adrenaline, blood and oxygen into my head, and the lightness of my hands.

When we get to the chorus “damn, you’re sexy bitch, a sexy bitch”, we lean our bodies forward on the pole, stick our bums out, bend and straighten our legs one at a time. The crowd goes crazy. “Shake that booty Ariel!” my friends shout.

I feel so damn good. I’m one hell of a sexy bitch tonight.

Singledom, solitude and the conundrum of growing young

I was greeted by this message when I arrived in Sydney. 

The café is unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. I’m at the Gloria Jeans on Pitt Street near Queen Victoria Building in downtown Sydney, killing my time before a pole dance workshop at Bobbi’s Pole Studio. This café is my favourite chill-out spot not because the coffee and food are particularly good (well, far from that actually as the coffee and food are just average), but because it’s conveniently located, and offers free wireless Internet and a welcoming ambience.

Most patrons and staff here are not locals or Caucasians. There are tourists, international students, working-holiday makers, new immigrants or people of any kind – downtown Sydney has such a vibrant mix of people of different origins and culture. The couple next to me are discussing their itinerary in English with strong European accent; a pair of friends with dark skin is catching up after gym; some patrons are staring out of the big glass windows blankly; a couple of Asians are taking a nap with heads buried in their arms on the table; a creepy old white man, the same one that I saw yesterday, is starring at me from the corner of the café. The red-and-brown colour tone, the aroma of coffee, and the soft music, welcome everyone in.

The streets in this afternoon are quiet too – a change of scene from the one earlier, when you could see groups and groups of teenagers with ripped denim shorts, singlets and sunnies, marching down the streets or hovering in front of McDonald’s, Hungry Jacks or Sunway to grab a bite before they hit the annual Future Music Festival. Today seems like a perfect day for the event with clear sky and a revival of summer heat. I hope the kids enjoy being compressed among stinky, sweaty strangers and suffocated by the smell and heat in the mosh pits.

For the past few days that I’ve been in Sydney, I come to realise that to succeed in, or more precisely, to survive, my imminent flight attendant job, I need to be able to cope with jetlag better. This is the fifth day of my arrival, but I still feel drowsy at 2pm. My drowsiness is partly caused by the medication that the doctor gave me for my upper respiratory tract infection and my cold on the second day of my arrival. How lame. And I haven’t been able to sleep well for quite awhile. How annoying. And I’m going to become a flight attendant for an international airline. Well, good luck with that.

All the sickness, injuries, and weakness that I experienced last year bring me into thinking – Am I really getting old? The muscles stiffness, the hot flushes, the deteriorated cardiovascular activity, sometimes triggered me to ponder if I’m already entering menopause. Obviously I’ve still got some years before that stage of my life, but my body doesn’t function or recover as well as it was when I was 22. However, at the same time, I now feel stronger, sexier and more alive than ever (thanks to pole dancer and yoga). And my mind is definitely younger and more open than before. So is it possible to grow young and old at the same time?

Throughout my life before 30, I longed for relationships and a family of my own. But I was also never sure what I really wanted. Like, you thought you wanted something but as soon as you’re close to getting it, you start to freak out and realise may be you don’t want it after all, or at least, not for now.

But at 31, even though I’m still as naïve and silly as ever (and still haven’t had a clue about what I want), I’m definitely more assured of who I am. After being in so many relationships/semi-relationships, reading so many self-help books, and watching way too many chick-flicks, I’m coming to accept that may be I’m just not meant to be with anyone. Maybe I’m just different.

I love being single and I enjoy being alone; too often before, I started or stayed in a relationship just for the sake of having someone (don’t take it personally boys – it’s not you, it’s me). Of course, it would be nice to have a good companion to share the rest of my life with, but for the past few years, I’ve learnt that I’m perfectly happy (or even happier) by myself. Without attachment, I can go wherever I want, do whatever I love, see whoever I feel like, or, flirt with whoever I fancy (the world is a beautiful place babe, where opportunities abound).

But before you call me bitch or slut or whatever disgusting name tags you can think of, I want to assure you I’m not against relationship – I’m still an ultimate romantic and a sucker for love. What I’m saying is that why be in a suboptimal relationship when I’m having so much fun by myself? I’m still waiting for my charming, straight prince in tailored Armani suit to sweep me up and we live happily ever after at our castle. But in the meantime, this princess just wants to have some fun.

"Can you hear me?"

It has been a busy and eventful week. My grandma was in the hospital for a surgery, so our whole family has been busy getting in and out to take care of her. The surgery was vey successful and she is recovering in an incredible rate. Her pugnacity – no doubt an indicator of vitality and strength – was evident the very next day of the surgery. I pity whoever shared the room with her – victims included at least two fellow patients and a caretaker. And my grandma stayed for only five days at the hospital.

On a Friday that I was visiting her (okay, more like idling unwillingly and reading uninteresting stories of some family brawls over a gambling tycoon’s fortune), my phone rang and I jumped, because A) I was happy for any beep and ring from my Blackberry because I was on the verge of needing medical attention for my boredom, and B) the number resembled those from Cathay Pacific Airways.

I answered at the second beep with a professional and controlled “hello.”

(Below conversation was in Cantonese)

“Can I speak with XXX (my full name)?” the female caller said.

“Yes, speaking.” I answered. Attentive.

“I’m calling from … ssssss…oouu…we’re…hiiishuji,” she said.

Damn.  The lousy reception made the call inaudible. I dashed out of the room, still clutching the phone at my ear with my brows locked. I could smell the importance of this call.

I said something, kept asking her whether she could hear me, but all she said was that she couldn’t. Then. She hung up.

Phone in my hand, I stared at it for a brief second before calling back. She picked up. But again, same thing happened.

Because of my abrupt department earlier, my family bombarded me with concerns and questions when I returned to the room. I told them that I suspected the call was from CX because they should have called by now if they were going to hire me. In the room, I called again, twice, but was only greeted by the voicemail of extension 2830. Okay, fine. They’ll call again, I told myself.

Indeed, they called on Monday – while I was on a bus. She asked whether I was free to talk and I said yes, because luckily, the bus was quite empty. She said it was going to be a long call; I said okay. She said (more like commanded) I needed to write everything down; I said I was all ready.

She spent the next ten minutes detailing when I’m going to start, what I have to do before the training (such as dying my light brown hair black – hell no! Dark brown is the best I can do – but of course I didn’t share this thought), what I have to wear to the training, how long the rumoured harsh training is for, all the documents and materials I have to bring when I sign the contract, etc.

Even though I said I was all ready when she started, all I had were two pieces of scrap paper with my stuff-to-dos scribbled all over the place.  I had to scrawl all those important commands by my caller at wherever I could fit them. And writing on such flimsy paper on your lap while holding a phone in one hand is certainly not easy. Not to mention your neck will complain after three minutes of that.

So I slid down my seat, turned my body to face it, crouched on the floor and kept scribbling away on the seat-now-turned-table.  As I jot more and more notes down, I began to worry I might run out of writing space before she could finish. But to my great relief, the call did end. As I sat back up, I finally had a moment to reflect on what had just happened – I’m so glad I was wearing jeans and the bus was not full, I thought.

And oh yes, I’ve got the job.

A new beginning...

I always wonder why some medical practitioners have to be so downright overbearing. 

“Are you taking any long-term medication? Including Chinese medicine?” My medical examiner asked.

“How do you define long-term?” I said.

She snorted and said, “of course the medicine you took ten years ago doesn’t count!”

“But what do you mean by long-term? Two weeks? Six months…”

“Okay! Are you NOW taking any medicine?” She cut me off with increased exasperation.

“Yes, recently, I'm taking some Chinese ones for better bowel movement.”

“Have you been admitted to a hospital?”

“Yes, for pneumonia when I was 11 and for removing some stones in my saliva gland in 2003.”

She scribbled everything down. And after a few more questions about my medical history, she proceeded to check my eyes.

“Are you shortsighted?” she asked.

“Not anymore, I’ve done Lasik.”

“So didn’t you go to the hospital for the surgery?” Another snarl.

Dr. Impatience, I’m sorry that I’ve missed that as a hospital admission and I’m sorry that I didn’t answer all your questions correctly, as an eager medical intern should.  But for Christ’s sake, I don’t have a medical degree – I’m only here for the medical assessment required for my flight attendant application.

This assessment was the last stage that stays between me, an un-employed free-spirit, and the job, a fun-loving, globetrotting flight attendant of Cathay Pacific Airway. The many procedures today – a chest X-ray, an urine test, a blood test, tests on eyesight, colour-blindness, hearing, arm reach, reflex, and flexibility, measurements of height, weight, blood pressure, and an elaborate disclosure of personal and family’s medical history – accentuated the gravity of this job.

When I filed my application online a month ago, the very next day of my last day as a Public Relations intern, I was just acting on impulse. I didn't think much. Well, that's a lie – I'd been thinking about applying for a few weeks ever since I saw an advertisement about CX career day in early January – however, I hadn't given it any serious thought. 

I guess at any point in her life, a fun-loving and adventurous girl must have thought about being a flight attendant; whether she really acts on it, it's another matter. I first thought about being a FA when I was right out of college. I still remember one of my close friends, Pat, and I were playing with the idea of applying together because neither of us wanted a mundane, boring nine-to-NINE job. However, that was just a dream. After being challenged repeatedly by people around us about our height (both of us were petite), and discouraged by our own indeterminations, we took the easy way out - she became an accountant and I a broker. So much for exploring the world and having fun.

For the past few years, whenever I hinted the faintest possibility of being a FA, my Dad would just shut me up for wasting all my good grades and education. But I guess his dismay was spawned more by the fear of disgrace for having a daughter as “stewardess” who asks people “coffee or tea?” – his ego just wouldn’t accept that.

On a visceral level, I hate being in one place – travelling is my blood and soul. The world is so big and there’s so much to see and experience, so why would I want to settle in one place while I’m still so young and agile?

And I love physical hard work so much that my definition of dream jobs means A) having to walk six to seven kilometers a day, practise in baking sun or howling rain for hours, and squat with 60kg of weight on my 42kg body, or B) having to suffer from bruises and chafes and agony during practice, spend most time being upside-down and sideway, stretch until there’s tears in my eyes, and groan through the n^th set of push-ups and crunches – like a golf touring pro or a pole dancer.

I’ve never once sprained my ankle or cracked a bone doing sports (thank God for that), but I would end up with strained muscles and arthritis symptoms with just a month of being fixated at an office desk. When the only movements require only those by my fingers and eyeballs, I feel my whole body degenerate into a dead pile of stones. My mind feels suffocated and suppressed. That was what happened with my last job. Right there, I had an epiphany that if I ever want to be happy, I will need a job that gives me lots of opportunities to travel and move.

Therefore, just a few days after my birthday and at a ripe age of 31, I applied for the FA position and competed with other twenty-year-olds. How cool was that?

After an arm reach test (for those who thought I wasn’t tall enough, I can reach 208cm! Okay, with tiptoe, but still), a group discussion session, an English proficiency test, a debate session, a psychometric test, a 30-minute individual interview, a dreadful mandarin test, and a 90-minute medical assessment, I’m now waiting for their final decision. Fidgeting.