On Large Bottoms and Larger Egos (Jeremy)

I think I’ve found the best way to win the hearts of middle-aged women everywhere short of actually being Kerry O’Brien; before I did this, I was a typical male, 18-25, brash, uncouth and insensitive; suddenly, when I was carrying a bunch of flowers, I transformed into the nicest young man ever seen. A bouquet of assorted red roses, wrapped in green paper, if you will; I have never been so adored by the Radio National set in all my life. The first sign that the world was spinning backwards was a nice lady who turned to me and said, “That’s lovely, dear. She’ll love those!”. The second was a woman who reprimanded her husband for teasing me about wasting my time, and I really knew that the world had begun to spin upside down when a third woman stopped her car in the middle of Mitcham Road for me to cross. As a cyclist, I can safely say that this has never happened to me before. It was actually quite a nice change to share the road with someone who didn’t wish to turn me into roadkill.

Actually, this brings me to the subject of death which is naturally very closely linked to the subject of Mathematics mid-semester assignments. Last night and the night before – the closer the due date, the worse it gets – it almost had me in tears, bashing the desk and trying to search around for a set of numbers and a flash of inspiration that simply wasn’t coming. The project itself is best described by a simple acronym, SOS; my reaction to the project (Save our Souls), my chances of passing this subject (Sink or Swim), the actual project itself (Spawn of Satan, a phrase equally applicable to any Eagle who didn’t shake a kid’s hand as they accepted their medal), the two ways to deal with this project (Speed or Suicide) and of course the answer that I will be handing in tomorrow (Sheets of Scribble). A massive thanks goes out to the people who worked with me on this thing; you know who you are and I am hugely in your debt. If any hitmen read my blog, I may well be interested in putting out a contract on the lecturers who wrote it.

One of the things that I have finally found difficult about Maths this year is – and this is difficult to put into words – being behind the average. All through the vast majority of my life I have been amongst – without wishing to sound egotistical – the more naturally gifted students in my class, and never too far away from the top mark in any of my classes. It happened through Junior School, and I was moved up a grade (a time advantage which I have since lost and then some by going to China) and still proved to be the class smartarse. It happened through Middle School, whereas I would “get” and remember concepts before others could even understand the basics of them, and I coasted. Through Senior School the work wasn’t necessarily easy, but again, I found that I was better than most in my class at it. In some of my classes, that still applies at University and I haven’t forgotten that. But suddenly, in Advanced Maths, especially after quite a few failed to clear the first hurdle in Semester One and could not continue on with the subject, that is no longer the case.

I am now amongst the students who are working hard to stay afloat, and it’s a different experience. There are some truly extraordinary people in that class and they can do things that I never will; and that’s fine, because it works the other way too, but that doesn’t mean that sometimes it’s not a bitter pill to swallow when I have such a burning desire to do well and succeed. Finally, for once in my life, I can see the other side; I can see how unfair it feels that some can coast by on sheer natural talent, cram before exams, and still pick up an H1 whilst I have to study till my hand drops off in order to scrape a pass; and I can also see the hypocrisy of it, because I have been that person so often, earlier on, in my life as well. Above all, it is also my pride which is letting me down. I know it’s illogical, but as I frantically screened through my nonsensical, hysterical, and above all, wrong, scrawling that I am trying to rescue in time to lodge it in for tomorrow, the feeling of being inadequate and inferior pervaded me. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I think it makes you appreciate the talents that you have even more. Which reminds me to get the whammy bar on my guitar fixed sometime.

I’d like to end this post on a happy note, and so I’ll go back to the end of the night when I met up with Kim and gave her flowers. After a fantastic dinner for one of Soph’s friends where I managed to break the record for most dirty jokes in a single hours’ worth of public conversation (a record most probably previously held by Messr. Billy Connolly), Kim and I walked down Brunswick St to Trampoline, the ice creamery which seems to germinated itself across various parts of Melbourne as though attached to various pedestrian’s shoes. Five minutes later, Kim and I stood beside the tramspot making various unintelligible noises such as “llll” and “mmmm”. The tram trip back into the city proved something I have known all my life; there is nothing more frustrating than watching somebody still eating chocolate when you’ve finished all yours. For the uneducated, my Easter two years ago lasted roughly thirty-four minutes and twenty-three seconds. My little sister’s ran for three-hundred-and-sixty-four-and-a-half days. When it came to the next Easter morning, she turned, looked at me, stuffed her pitiful morsel of chocolate into her mouth, and turned to unwrap her egg for the next year.

The family staggered my egg-recieving so as to try and make it last at least a few hours.

Anyway, before I go, when I was on the bus yesterday dreaming of icecream and eating a salad sandwich a few words started flowing through my head. They’re written below.

Best of luck with all your assignments guys;

jez

ODE TO TRAMPOLINE
I think I have fallen in love, and it’s with Trampoline
A place where people go in skinny, and leave far from lean
A double scoop (vanilla) puts your art’ries to the test
A single bite of chocolate provokes cardiac arrest

So were I to become rich, or win the lottery,
Would it be a brand new house, or private yacht for me?
Would I go and buy myself a new Merc, or a Lexus?
No! I say. I’d buy myself an arse the size of Texas.