social butterflying

I'm an extrovert, which is one of the biggest problems I have with Myers-Briggs.  I hardly needed a test to tell me I like to be the center of attention.  But just in case there was ever any doubt, I do.  You can all run along and sleep easily now, can't you?  I know; it was a weight off my mind as well.

Being an extrovert is both an advantage and a disadvantage when moving overseas.  Overall I think it's probably a helpful thing (not that I'd really know otherwise), what with needing to run around and start entirely from scratch on the friends-making end of things and all.  The downside, though, is that I have the hardest time coping with unscheduled hours.

Some people, I'm told, relish a weekend alone, away from the masses, nestled safely in their Lower North Shore abodes.  They rejuvenate from alone time and emerge beautifully refreshed, like daisies, glowing and ready to face the cruel, hard world once again.

I am the opposite.  Give me a weekend alone, away from the masses, nestled safely in my Lower North Shore abode and I will hit the roof, pout, rant and emerge fully scathed from bouncing off the (thoughtlessly unpadded) walls ready to fling myself face first into a week full of activity.

Given that this scenario happens occasionally at the best of times (plans getting canceled at the last minute ranks mighty highly on my list of top ten pet peeves in life), it's particularly hard to combat when you've just moved to an entirely new continent where you quite literally know no one.

At first it was all fun and games -- I worked by day and had weekends free to explore the city.  There's plenty in Sydney to keep you occupied for quite a few weekends, so I was off to a pretty rousing start, particularly as I initially only planned to come for a short time.  I turned 24 a month after I arrived so I made sure to schedule fun in:  I took myself on a surf camp.  I knew no one else on the trip, but had a great time.  The instructors even made me a cake, though I think I subsequently insulted them thoroughly by refusing to drink point blank.  I don't drink, which is common enough knowledge among my friends who by this point think nothing of it, but it's not a concept that really enters the heads of your average Australian surf instructor.  Oh, well.  The cake was good.

The next few months were good, though exceptionally well scheduled on my part:  I'd joined my church, so had plenty of ready-made friendly acquaintances and even a few social outings, but I was severely limited to seeing people (outside of my connect group) no more than once a month.  It can be pushing it for friends even under normal circumstances, but outside of freshman year at an American university few people strike up a friendship to the depth that you can see each other more than that right off the bat and still keep things socially acceptable.  Not having been homeschooled, I am well aware of such factors.

Not only that, I was quickly learning of the biggest cultural differences between Americans and Australians:  Americans tend to move away for college and then quite often again and then maybe once more for good measure, Australians, while extremely well traveled and quite possibly with a year overseas under their belts, generally keep all their connections in one city.

Thus, a typical Sydneysider has not only a family and network of family friends, but also elementary school friends, junior high friends, high school friends, university friends, work friends, church friends, old church friends, even older church friends and random miscellaneous friends all at their disposal.  And not only at their disposal, but on their calendars (or in their diaries, depending how you like to phrase these things).  And finding a place to squeeze yourself into as a new friend and outsider who looks likely to be jumping ship at any moment is challenging.  Not that it's not worth it -- it is -- but it's hard.  And it takes really amazing friends.  (Thanks, guys!  You're great!  I've always said one my better points in life is picking good friends.  Aww.  Now, everyone together:  awww.)

And so my friends consisted of several once-a-monthers, and as much time at the pub as the regular alcoholics.  Thankfully my co-workers are big drinkers, so I was able to keep myself relatively amused for substantial periods of time, despite not drinking and fervently despising cigarette smoke (they're chain smokers as well).  It was in this period that I learned to tolerate the smell of cigarettes without making a complete scene about it, which really was saying something.

It was also during this time that I honed my habit of taking myself out for treats.  While it struck me as rather self-indulgent in America, here it was a necessary means of coping with entirely too much free time.  Although I prefer talking to friends by far, I'm extroverted enough that I actually do gain energy from simply being in populated places. Manly Beach became a favorite haunt, and I was giddy at the idea of being able to simply stop by the beach on my way home from work.  The novelty's rather worn off now, but that has more to do with the fact that it's not remotely on my way home any longer.

You see, the primary factor that motivates most of my scheduled activities is transportation.  Transportation was never an issue in America.  I had a car, and I drove it everywhere I wanted to go.  It even had four-wheel drive, so snow was never an issue.  Rain occasionally posed problems as the windshield wipers worked intermittently, and it was slightly embarrassing to drive with other people seeing as the blinker sound came and went at random ("Uh, Kim?" my passenger would ask, cautiously, wary of insulting my driving.  "Do you mean to have your blinker on?"  "Oh, no!" I'd answer gaily.  "That's not the blinker at all, that's just the sound the car makes.  Isn't it adorable?"), but I had a car and I loved it.  Mostly for the places it could take me, but still.

Here I do not have a car.  I would love to have a car.  (Should you like to donate one to The Cause, you have only to leave a comment at the end of this post and I shall happily contact you within seconds.  Easy as pie!  Can't believe no one has tried it yet, really.)  But as I do not, my life is ruled by buses.  And here's the thing:  while buses present their own set of problems, what really gets me is the walking involved.

I am not a walker.  I do not know why not.  It is clearly a flaw in my character, but I do not enjoy walking.  I never have.  I doubt I ever will.  I have but one exception:  beaches.  My love for beaches is such that it supersedes my loathing of ambling.  Otherwise, I do not enjoy walking.  I always say if you want to know if I like a boy, you have only to watch and see if I'll condescend to walk aimlessly with him.  If we are walking towards a destination as a legitimate means of transport, it does not count.  That I do do.  That I must do.  That I do regularly and with all sorts of people and do not detest them for it, really.  (Really!)  But aimless walking is another matter entirely.  Should you catch me at it, please drag the boy aside and inform him that, actually, I hate it.  And perhaps you could convince him to get me a taxi home while you're at it.

Thus, the amount of walking required for my social activities is of prime importance to me.  I have a 6-10 minute daily walk to and from the bus stop (downhill versus uphill) regardless (unless I am so lucky as to get a ride home!), and, frankly, I see this a very reasonable upper limit for one day.  I pride myself that I am certainly getting more exercise in my routine than I would be if I had a car, but I see no reason whatsoever to go out of my way to achieve any greater level of fitness than this.  Exit my great Manly quest.  Down that Corso and back is a just pushing things a bit far after a hike to Circular Quay.

I didn't go to the beach every day even before I moved, though.  I had to mix it up a bit, of course.  One of my other favorite treats was taking myself to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon.  I'd finish work just after 4, and have nothing to do until Bible study at 7:30.  Tuesdays are cheap ticket nights at the movies, and I found watching one to be the perfect answer to the what-the-heck-am-I-going-to-do-for-three-hours? question.  (Going home naturally was out of the question.  It would have involved, at that point, a certain extra 20 minutes of walking, not to mention time waiting for the bus.  Clearly no one in their right mind would have attempted this.  Much better to simply stay out and forgo dinner, but perhaps that's another story entirely.)

Going to the movies or the theatre alone has never bothered me.  I wouldn't venture to say I've seen half such productions in my life alone, but I'd guess that a quarter might be a pretty reasonable estimate.  I have friends who say they'd never be caught dead in a theatre alone (gosh, not even Lincoln was!), but I remain unfazed.  Particularly if I'm looking stunning, which of course is generally the aim.  (And ha!  You cannot possibly prove me wrong.  You weren't there!  I was ... ravishing, actually, come to think of it.)

Not only do I enjoy going out alone (no one cares if bawl your eyes out -- even if the movie isn't sad! -- or laugh too loudly or cough too much or twirl your hair incessantly from start to finish), it also serves a greater, dual purpose:  keeping me temporarily amused while leaving me free to spend my once-a-month friend hours free for actual socializing.  You see, if I only get two hours a month with a real, live friend, I want the time to count in a much realer than a let's-sit-and-stare-at-a-screen-together sort of way.  Don't get me wrong; I like movies.  It's just that I'm perfectly capable of watching them on my own, but holding a two-hour diatribe by myself is somewhat less exhilarating.  Seeing as I like to do both from time to time, I tend to save my social time for real social engagements.

One fabulous American idea I came up with was to instigate a monthly games night, which, judging from the relative lack-of-success of my later birthday parties, should have registered as an idea that screams AMERICAN! a bit more loudly than Australians tend to prefer.  (They can, incidentally, handle American-ness much better than Brits.  It is rare for me to actually see them shudder when I speak.)

It was American in two senses:  first, it involved games.  My American friends love games.  Certain Australians like games, but they've got nothing on my high school friends.  We quite happily sat around playing Taboo and Guesstures and Catch Phrase and euchre and Egyptian ratscrew for hours at all my high school parties.  (The same parties that were famous for having five beverages to choose from:  water, and four kinds of milk.  True story.  We also loved kicking around a giant yellow ball on our backs.  And getting twisted up on my big tree swing.  And lighting grapes on fire in my microwave.  And playing with bonfires, which in hindsight is probably rather a miracle we all survived.  But anyway.)  Second, the idea was a bit far into the tall poppy camp for Australian liking.

I've written at length about the Australian thing against tall poppies, which Garry so helpfully pointed out are flowers, and not small dogs, despite what you'd think upon hearing the word pronounced here, but the short version is that, while Americans root for the dare-to-be-different! Dalmatian on the poster, Australians cheer for the underdog and want to cut down anyone who shows great promise in a field, which they register as arrogance.  Hosting my own parties is a bit too stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb sort of thing for an Australian to do, but, hey.  I'm American and I'm sticking to my guns on this one.  I have fun, and my flat gets cleaned at least once a month.

My final method of keeping occupied is sleeping.  When all else fails, I give up in despair and surrender to the snooze.  Thankfully I've always had a fast habit of sleeping in till noon every weekend day possible.  (And now with Saturday night church, I can feel like a pagan all day long on Sundays!  It was such a novelty:  so this is what it feels like to be a non-Christian!  Wow!)

This plan kills two birds with one stone:  I get sleep, and I don't have to worry about being bored in the mornings.  Perfect.  What it does leave is the afternoons.  Thankfully, though, I'm an extrovert and not terribly shy about striking up conversations.

So, what are you doing this Sunday?  After noon, of course.