Avada Kedavra, Childhood

It's been a week for milestones here in Australia. Last Wednesday, I turned 22. On the same day, the final installment of the Harry Potter movies was released in Australia, though its taken me til tonight to see it. Both of these events, though exciting, are bittersweet, as, to me, they mark the definitive end of childhood. Overly negative and melodramatic, you say? Well, hear me out. The 22nd birthday is a tricky one. All birthdays prior are fun. You look forward to them. All your friends come. There's cake. When the cake begins to wear thin, you get privileges. Voting. Drinking. Not being able to have sex with people under 18 (that one didn't really affect me). But 22 is the death knell of fun birthdays. From here on out, its all work, taxes and drudgery until you are mercifully released by death's sweet embrace. Here come the birthdays you dread. The ones you are forced to spend chuckling through gritted teeth at friends who say things like "How's it feel to be over the hill?" or (worse) encourage you to "Act your shoe size, not your age." Shudder.
Further encouraging my doom and gloom prophecies is the release of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2," the final installment of the Harry Potter phenomenon. Last year, I was introduced by a friend (credit where credit is due: Brett) to the idea that the timing of the Harry Potter franchise seems to mirror our path to adulthood. It all began in fourth grade, when my teacher, Mrs. Pickett, began reading a book to my class. "Its big in England," she told us, as though that would be an irresistible lure to a classroom full of Ritalin-addled eight-year olds. It must have worked, however, because we dutifully sat and listened to the adventures of Harry, Ron and Her-mee-own (as Mrs. Pickett, and the rest of us, assumed it was pronounced. Sorry we have normal names in America, J.K Rowling) as they searched for the Sorcerer's stone. We got hooked, and somehow, so did the rest of world. I read the books dutifully until the final installment, which came out the summer I graduated highschool, just one month before I left California for the East Coast. Now, the final movie has come out the summer after I graduated college. Much like my erstwhile carefree existence, Harry Potter is over.
But I'm not all doom and gloom. I am very grateful for the past 22 years. I have been surrounded by family and friends throughout, and have had more blessings showered upon me than I can count. And I am grateful for Harry Potter. Though I'll admit, my loyalty has wavered (I never saw the fifth movie, and I thought the sixth was DUMB), I knew I would watch the final installment. And just before the credits rolled, I shed a single tear (read: sobbed like a colicky baby who's just been dropped). I am grateful for the story that was told and for all the kids who barely read who suddenly found a love of reading, even if only for seven books. I am grateful that the heroes of the book are not cool, but smart, giving hope to every nerd (for the record, I prefer the term "bookish"), and that the moral of the story is to stand up for your friends and yourself, and to always at least try to do the right thing. Though none of us may ever battle a noseless megalomaniac for control of a magical wizarding world, we will all face times when we are forced to choose between the right way and, if not the wrong way, the easy way.
But Ellen, you say, this might not be the end. There could be "Harry Potter: the Later Years" or a PREQUEL! And at the rate Hollywood is going, there will absolutely be a reboot of Harry Potter in about five years, starring Jaden Smith. I suppose I could hold out hope for more Pottermania, just as I could begin my Botox treatments next week, or keep wearing my Abercrombie and Fitch jorts well into my thirties. But just as neither of these choices would be advisable, neither is more Harry Potter. Good things are good because they are precious. We cherish them because they will be gone soon. I am grateful for the carefree childhood I had, but though it pains me to say it, I'm sure adulthood has SOME fun times in store. It can't all just be death and taxes, right?? (SHUT IT, Benjamin Franklin)
So to close it all off, go see Harry Potter, and thanks for the birthday wishes!!! P.S. If you didn't wish me a happy birthday, you're dead to me. Kidding. Ish.

A Farewell to Bus

For the past two and a half weeks, I have been taking the bus to work. Ordinarily, this would be no big thing; public transportation in Australia is very good, and the Gold Coast has a great bus system. However, the distance between my job and our apartment (a drive of about 15 minutes) inexplicably takes almost an hour on the bus and involves not only a transfer but a fair bit of walking between the two bus stations. Also, it is timed inconveniently enough so that I often end up to running to catch one bus and waiting up to twenty minutes for the next one. To top it all off, I invariably arrive at work at least 25 minutes early, a phenomenon I am hoping my employers chalk up to dedication and not creepiness. In short I don’t think I could have picked a less desirable mode of transport had I tried, and buying a bike last weekend was a very exciting move towards emancipation from the bus.

Unfortunately, the day after we bought the bike, Jamie had to go back to Kingaroy (the peanut capitol of Australia, also a runner-up for the “Worst Place I Have Ever Been” prize) for four days to finish up some work up there and after that I have been sick (isn’t it SO. FUN. that I get to have TWO flu and cold seasons in ONE year?????) on and off, so the stars have not aligned and I have been forced to bus it day after day, my shiny new bike leaning forlornly against our couch. But, God willing, tomorrow will be the day and I will sail off to work, simultaneously reducing my carbon footprint and tightening my butt, reveling in my newfound freedom and the absolute lack of creepy bus drivers calling me “doll.”

But it is not without a tinge of sadness that I bid adieu to the bus. For one, I shall miss my Bus Friends, the people who travel with me, every morning and evening, day in and day out, stalwart companions on the road of life. Interactions with Bus Friends vary from simple greetings to prolonged conversations, but generally, buses are similar to fight clubs, in that you just. Don’t. Talk. Yet I will miss all of them in their own special ways. The toothless 70 year old man with the Phil Spector haircut who wears Shapeups, the woman who talks incessantly on her phone the whole ride, the man who gets on and off the bus at exactly the same stops as myself (including transfers) every day, yet has thus far refused any of my earnest attempts at conversation (actually, I won’t miss him, he seems like kind of a dick…), but to all my bus friends, I bid a fond adieu.

Wish me luck as I hurtle along the highways on my trusty metal steed, praying that the pedals don’t fall off (one did last weekend) and that I don’t sweat through my work clothes on the journey, alienating potential friends among my coworkers…