I often find myself wondering what the hell I’m doing.

 

Sometimes it’s when I’ve slipped over on a beer-soaked dance floor and am not immediately slid under someone’s legs and lifted up like an extra on Grease. Sometimes it’s when I catch myself unknowingly whistling Waltzing Matilda while wearing an R M Williams long-sleeved, button-up shirt in a shopping centre after seeing a picture of cotton saying, “but we don’t grow cotton out here” to myself. And sometimes it’s when I’m sitting in a hotel room plagued with mosquitos re-watching the first season of Cougar Town.

 

Those moments are all pretty recent, but the last one is so recent it’s current.

 

Yep, I’m in one of the top two cities in Australia (judging by other people’s standards, not by my own. Because we all know the top two Australian cities in my eyes are: the city that contains the three only Super Roosters in existence; and the city that grows the Milton mangoes. Apparently I’m not in a position to host a tourism show just yet, but once I get clearance you can bet the sunshine state is going to be put on the map) and I’m sitting in a hotel room watching reruns of something I’ve seen at least ten times.

 

I’m sitting in this hotel because I’ve moved interstate yet again, and the guy whose room I’m taking needed a bit of extra time to move out and I start at a new job tomorrow so I’m crashing in a hotel. To some people it might sound adventurous or even glamorous that I’m living in a hotel for a few days, but when the name of the place you’re staying at features the word “budget” and “ibis”, one of the scummiest birds on earth, it takes the shine out of it just a little. There’s something about the word “budget” that makes me sad.  It’s bad enough when people use it as a noun, but when someone uses the word “budget” as an adjective, you know you’re going to have to wear thongs in the shower.

 

Not that I’m complaining: I have aircon, a big television and a tea-making station I don’t even have to get out of bed to use. I even got a free paper in the lobby today. But after living with my sister and brother in-law for the past few months, it still feels a little empty in this room.

 

I know I shouldn’t be complaining. I had a great send off.

 

A friend’s birthday coinciding with Oktoberfest meant I got to have at least 12 hours of beer guzzling and table dancing with some fantastic friends, all while we were in ridiculous costumes. One of my sisters and I had three different types of cake for breakfast the other day. My godmother made me a quiche. Friends have sent me long messages telling me how proud they are of me. Our family goodbye included a roast lamb, a hot chook and a rarely-seen homemade cheesecake by Mum. I had a few stubbies with Dad. I was dared to, and did, eat a whole spoonful of Vegemite. The Beaches soundtrack played in the background. It was a lovely last hurrah.

 

Then last night Mum, my little sister and I watched Little Women (while hoping it wasn’t a premonition for our lives because there are four girls in our family and no one wants to be Beth. And because Sydney is Australia’s version of New York and I’m probably the closest to Jo, the Beth in our family might get sick again while I’m away having “sensational experiences before succumbing to matrimony”. My greatest comfort is knowing my little sister has never tried to reshape her nose). Today Dad drove me to the airport, actually paid for parking and waited with me in the terminal until I was one of the last ones to board the plane. I still had tears in my eyes as I handed the cabin crew my boarding pass and turned back to wave at Dad, who was still watching as I walked towards the tarmac. Hell, someone even bought my microwave off Gumtree today for fifty big ones! I’m very lucky.

 

But I can’t say I’m not a little bit sad.

 

Thankfully, there’s nothing that will turn your frown upside quite like Courtney Cox eating a honkin’ sticky bun off the bottom of a fry pan.