We feel so much more productive, so much more eager about getting up during summer in Melbourne. As the summer sun rises early, rolling out of bed gets easier and so does the at-least-30-minute commute to work in the CBD for many of us each morning. When rays of summer sunshine poke through my blinds and shine on my face at 6am, I groan about how early it is, then remind myself of all the time I have to see the world.
Hugging. Some of us like to be hugged, and some of us don’t.
I don’t mind being hugged. Don’t mind giving hugs either. Crushing bear hugs. Soft two-second hugs. Group hugs. One arm hugs. Whether we hug someone or not depends on how we feel about them. And how they feel about us.
We hug someone we barely know when we like them and feel like we can be friends or more. If we have a nice conversation going and maybe share a laugh hanging out with someone we don’t know well, we might hug them when saying hello or goodbye.
The past three months have been rough for me. Juggling a full time office job and being a writer and a blogger hasn’t been easy: clueless as to why I’m doing the job I’m doing, emails waiting to be answered in my inbox, unhappy with articles I’m working on as deadlines loom, five hours of sleep at most each night. Being sick with the winter flu hasn’t helped either.
I grew up in a traditional-minded Chinese Malaysian household and am no stranger to Asian superstitions. My mum is a big believer in them, believing there are lucky Chinese numbers and that keeping pet turtles slows down fortunes, for instance. I always wonder why.
As Asians, many of us are respectful. We believe in the spiritual, believe fate controls our destiny: anger ghosts or spirits floating around and they may curse a dose of bad luck upon us. My parents pray at temples for luck at the start of every Chinese New Year. My relatives have small shrines in their homes, and and never fail to put an even number of mandarins – usually lucky eight mandarins – at the front as offerings to the gods.