Working Girls

Some of my school friends now have real jobs. I mean, jobs that are 9-5, Monday to Friday. It is scary. I go away for half a year, come home and suddenly I’m not friends with students, I’m friends with a Marketing Exec, teacher, marketer at Porsche and whatever interesting thing it is that MB does when she’s not on Facebook at work.

They have clients. They’re making money. They are in the adult world. Their ability to adapt to this strange place of four weeks holiday a year is pretty impressive.

They’ve got their degrees and they’re paying off their student loans. Wheras I am still racking up government debt in a house in Wellington (breakthrough: we have insulation this year) where I spend my days having lecturers voices wash over me and drowning in so much reading that I now have glasses. Oh the irony that I got rid of my nose piercing only to become even less bad-ass by getting glasses.

When I’m home for a mid-semester break (like the present time) I have to see them at weekends or evenings. The last time we could only see friends at weekends was when your bestie from primary went to the local high school and you entered the world of single-sex Catholic education (now that’s a story for another day. It’s not that it annoys me, I’m as proud as a new mum of my girls all grown up but it’s such a disruption to the routine whereby Tuesday was a perfectly acceptable time to have a sleepover.

There appears to be many benefits to this full time proper job thing, like money and job satisfaction and being able to go out to fancy restaurants and interesting co-workers who are older and more sophisticated. And actually feeling like you are getting somewhere in life! Considering that I have no clue what I’m going to do if I ever grow up and actually graduate, this unglamorous study thing is a societally acceptable way to spend my days.


Sharing is Caring.

Because I’m back in Auckland for mid-semester break I was around for bookclub (yes we have bookclub, it’s more of a culture club, which is more of a gossip club, but we like to call it bookclub because that way we sound intellectual when we have midweek dessert night). Last night, at Miss B’s house (she gets a title as she’s a teacher now), as well as Brad and Ange’s engagement and why pretty girls stick together, we discussed how strange other girls can be (a highly academic subject). For example, apparently some other groups of girl friends give each other privacy to get changed, go to the toilet at parties separately and don’t share deodorant. Apparently some other girl posses don’t wear slippers and sicko grey track pants to each others houses and don’t share clothes, even though the latter often means that you don’t know where your stuff ends up or whose got your new dress in their overflowing wardrobe.

Maybe it’s because we have been together for so long, we have navigated high school hallways and some have even graduated from uni. And have done EVERYTHING inbetween – the phases, the boyfriends, the school musicals, the detentions, the belief in invincibility. These are the same friends who let me dye my hair blond at 14, while I had braces and wore Teva sandels – I can’t figure out which part of that was the most cringey.

Don’t get me wrong, we aren’t some Babysitters Club who wear scrunchies and eat peanut butter cookies (ok, we do eat cookies) but our Catholic schooling taught us one thing, sharing. Sharing your food and your feelings, the goods and the bads, the books your reading and your new OPI nailpolish. Mates, they’re the stiffest drink you’ve got (I think I’ll copyright that). You’ll meet them, I’ve just got to think of suitable pseudonyms. Cheers.