by KIRSTY RICE
I went through a stage in my mid twenties where I really wished I could have gone back and started again. I was sure I could have been a better student. I would have worked harder, well, I would have actually DONE some work.
I would have learnt a language, done my math homework and actually read the books that I wrote essays about. If I could have gone back and started again, I just knew I would have been in a better place.
It wasn’t just the regrets. Sure, I would never have kissed the guy with the hush puppy shoes, and I would have remembered to pull the dress out of the back of my stockings BEFORE I walked into the year twelve formal dance, but there was more to it.
I would have gone back and been nicer to myself. I would have looked at myself in the mirror and said “WOW”. I would have told myself that the freckles were fine, that my size was just perfect, and I would have grabbed my thighs not to be horrified by their girth but amazed by their muscle tone.
G and I went to renew our passports yesterday. We don’t have an Australian Embassy in Qatar, which means we wait for the consulate representatives to make their monthly visit. G was already seated at the table when I arrived, a familiar plastic packet of birth certificates and translated documents spread in front of him.
Our marriage certificate was there, with six different birth certificates from an array of countries. As I flick through the contents a little explosive flashback triggers with each one, a different hospital bed, a different accent or language to decipher.