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.