It’s true. I’m running out of old dodgy dates to write about. I live in a real and metaphorical desert. The real desert is a dateless, barren man-scape and the metaphorical desert is (conveniently) drying up too, all the stories have been told, evaporated into the blogosphere. Leaving me with nothing almost nothing to write about. Almost nothing. I could always:
– Blush over my newfound crush on Ricky Martin in a bizarre new twist in my reality television addiction
– Gush over the sensational run I went on last night- the standard loop along the beach and backstreets. I did lunges, squats and shadow boxed in unlit corners, with Kanye and RATM as the soundtrack to my very own training montage. Down near the old jetty is a clear, wide asphalt turning circle for trucks. I pelted around the edge and down the middle, my heart pounding, my head tilted upwards taking in the Milky Way as my stride and speed increasing in time with the music…
– Giggle girlishly at my early stages of a steady relationship with the local gym. It’s still in that exciting phase where I get dressed up beforehand and make a special playlist for the occasion! We’re still getting to know each other so we’re not bored of each other yet, I still get nervous and clumsy sometimes but I feel elated and exhausted afterwards!
– Rant about the physical, political, social and emotional aspects of working in a remote Aboriginal community where the most irritating aspect is the other white people
– Mark the miraculous and dramatic start of winter, which began with a Wednesday hail filled dust storm! It’s so nice to be occasionally cold outside!
BUT NEVER FEAR, OH READERS DEAR! There’s one last story stacked away in my backpack of broken hearts! One last Alice Springs online dating fail! You’re saved from my political ranting, exercise obsessing and Ricky Martin swooning! I’m temporarily saved from going on more bad dates just to write about them!
Our tale begins with a sunset on top of ANZAC Hill- where grey nomads shuffle out of their caravans and high-schoolers make out in their parents cars. Tradies perch casually on the front of their utes, chowing down Maccas after a shift. Tourists point their enormous lenses towards the fading sun, disappointed at how green the ‘Red Centre’ really is after rain. Small children proudly point out Mt Gillen in the distance and their primary schools below them to their visiting relatives, who are too tired to take in the beauty of the changing colours on the rocky ranges, the suburban pools, playgrounds and Jacarandas.
The low prowl of the only Harley in town interrupts our collective peace. I take a seat and get busy trying to look busy and unfazed.
‘I’m the one in the red dress,’ I text.
‘I’m the one with the motorbike helmet,’ he replies.
I turn around and try to appear unfazed.*
TO BE CONTINUED…
Ha! By the way, welcome to any new readers! If you’re new here, this is who I am and this is where I live. Thanks for dropping by, subscribe over there on the side, comment your heart out down below and join me on the book of faces. There, now we’re acquainted!
*Why did I feel the need to appear unimpressed? Why hide my excitement? Why try to be cool? I think maybe from now on I’ll try to be less cool, less busy and generally be OK with being fazed.