Originally published by the Clifton Courier, December 5, 2018

Now that I’m back in Queensland, there are few things I need to start getting used to again.

It’s not that I completely forgot who I was while I was away. I didn’t need the head of a deceased, stately lion to form in the clouds telling me to remember who I was. I hadn’t had a Queensland summer for four years, however, I didn’t feel as if I’d been away for that long.

But, after a few weeks at home, I’m realising there were certain aspects of life in the Sunshine State that I’d forgotten:

Driving

I relied on the Sydney public transport system and share riding apps to get me around in NSW, so I didn’t need a car. And, more importantly, it was cheaper not to have one.

Because I was used to someone else doing the driving, I slowly began to forget what it meant to be a motorist. The price of fuel meant nothing to me. I did not have to confront my inability to tell left from right*. I never had to think about who had right of way.

* I’m hoping this flaw means something remarkable. Like, I may not be able to tell right from left without making an L shape with my finger and thumb, but that’s only because the space in my brain required for this particular skill is being taken up by something much more useful than a sense of direction. I’m hoping it’s a marvellous ability that is yet to show itself because otherwise I imagine that space is being taken up with the lyrics to the Shrek The Halls Christmas CD we have. I mean, sure, I like being able to sing the Shrek-ified version of 12 Days of Christmas, but I’m rather hoping I have a little more to give. 

But now I am back behind the wheel, I’ve had to start paying more attention.

I had forgotten which streets lead to what neighbourhood and have been relying on a global positioning system to get me from one end of the town to another. It’s taking a few trips to the supermarket, but slowly I’m starting to remember vague directions and can almost feel the neuron pathways building up again.

I’ve also rediscovered the joy of being in a mobile box of solitude in which it’s perfectly acceptable to practise one’s Mariah Carey impersonations. Incidentally, I’ve also rediscovered my old Christmas playlist.

Sweat

Now I’m not saying I didn’t sweat in Sydney. I got plenty sweaty, let me tell you. I mean, my skin excreted salty body water to cool me down when my core temp rose, just like every other person with a functioning self-regulatory system (and by this I am referring purely to a biological self-regulatory system, because I suspect by verbal self-regulatory system could do with some fine tuning).

But this is a different level of sweat – you get because you decided to spend an extra 10 minutes outside after 7.34am.

I’d forgotten what it was like to have to hastily push in a chair under the table if you were sitting in it for longer than 14 minutes so no one can see the huge puddle of perspiration that pooled underneath your thighs. I’d also forgotten that the reason you so hastily push in your chair isn’t so actually so that other people didn’t see it, but so you don’t get a chance to take a look for yourself and be confronted by the startling outline of your thighs.

Washing my feet in the shower

Now, I realised this makes me sound like a bit of a grot, so I will begin by confirming that I do shower properly – I soap, I lather, I use the alone time to mentally revisit every time I failed to stand up for myself and pretend I said something really, really cool.

I’m just like you.

But when I was in Sydney, I never had to scrub my feet. In fact, just standing in the tepid, soapy puddle on my probably-mould-ridden shower tiles was enough to cleanse my soles.

Because I was always wearing shoes outdoors.

Now I know that wearing shoes outdoors sounds pretty standard – there are bindies and hot bitumen and used Bandaids on the ground outdoors. We don’t want the stuff touching our supple, silky feet. That’s why we put a shoe between us and the ground.

But for all that practical sense behind shoe-wearing, I don’t seem to be doing as much of it in Queensland.

Maybe it’s because I’ve suddenly converted into a carefree bohemian who wans to connect with the earth, but I suggest it has more to do with the presence of actual yards in this state.

And so, with more time outside, I find the bottom of my feet need more attention when showering.

Incidentally, that might have something to do with the increased level of sweat – my feet have been somewhat stained thanks to my sweat mixing with the tan in my leather sandals, which has leeched into my foot skin, making me look like I have the most pointless spray tan in history.