The Two Way Mirror

The Two-Way Mirror

By Queenie Ung-Lam

I look at my phone again - the third time in the last 30 minutes. I know it’s rude, but it’s so late - my eyes were droopy two hours ago, and the siren call of my bed has only gotten louder. Someone goes to order another round of drinks. Dammit! There goes my window to make an exit without seeming like the grandma that I am.

I can’t resist. I look at my phone again.

9:39 pm! At this rate, I’ll never make it to bed by 10 pm. Sigh.

It’s a team bonding event for a group of us involved on campus happenings and the damn first years have the energy to turn this into an all-nighter. How are they so fucking perky? I’m one of the few third years on the team and feel outnumbered— the fourth and fifth years didn’t even bother to show up. They know the drill.

Finally, finally, it starts to wrap up. The first years are antsy, ready to make the walk to Civic whilst sharing a bottle of the Little Fat Lamb stored in a nearby bush. I lock eyes with a fellow third year. We’re ready to get out of here.

I can’t walk to my car fast enough, racing down Northbourne as the minutes tick closer to 10.

9:54 pm. I’m on Adelaide Avenue.

9:56 pm. I turn sharply onto my street.

9:58 pm. I’m in the bathroom, electric toothbrush in hand, smearing lines of white, red and blue toothpaste across the bristles.

I quickly scrub at my face, not having to worry about wearing makeup. No jewellery today. I slip off my baggy crew neck, leaving it on the floor, too tired to even hang it over the laundry basket.

Just as I’m about to turn the lights off in the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of someone’s face in the mirror.

She’s buoyant despite the dimness in the room and late hour, floating on the high of feeling ready for a night out.

Ready for a night of debauchery. You can tell by the way she checks herself out in the mirror. Confident. Already projecting into the wildness of the night, the looseness of moving to music that is too loud, in a throng of bodies that is packed too tight. Her highlighter will catch those strobe lights, her arms will reach out to friends, all of them unsteady on the ferocity of feeling so alive.

Alive,

Alive,

ALIVE.

I look into the mirror at the reflection of first year me. She’s ready to leave, just as I’m ready to come in. She looks past me, uninterested in this seemingly tired, muted being. Her eyebrows are raised, she’s disappointed at what she sees. Where did this grandma come from? she wonders.

I want to tell her, dude, I’m a third year now, fuck, nearly a fourth year, the years of student politics, last minute 2000-word essays and shit CBE tutorials have worn me down. Don’t give me that look. I’ve tried to remain upbeat, to want to go party after an entire week of uni, work and student activism, but what I need is rest, not downstairs Moose tequila shots. Debauchery is a thing of the past, red lipstick has been replaced with Vaseline, knee high boots with Uggs and pretty dresses with flannel pyjamas.

Do I bore you, I want to ask her? You must think me terribly, terribly mundane, home at 10 pm on a Thursday night. What happened to the ready for anything girl, the one who stumbled into a bush for a quick tac-vom before downing that cheap Aldi vodka?

I’ll tell you what. She grew out of it all. Maybe it was the too many mornings waking up hours after sunrise, clutching her head to contain the aches. Or perhaps the change in responsibilities, the shifting of priorities so that liver health became more important than a raging night out.

But it doesn’t matter who she is now, who she has become. Go have your fun, you energised and wild youth. Let this third year rest. She’s fucking tired.

Baby’s First Dating App By Bernadette Callaghan

Bernadette Callaghan reviews Hinge-- the dating app ‘designed to be deleted’.

How does one date in Canberra? Sleep with someone from your university college? Find a nice ADFA boy? Date your friend’s ex’s ex-girlfriend? The prospects are grim. Single now for a year and a half, I have finally caved and downloaded a dating app, specifically, Hinge. The premise is simple but much more involved than I expected. First, you choose six photos which you can attach a prompt to - “Me during Fashion Week”, “As seen on my mum’s fridge” and “Plandid or candid” are some of the options. Then it’s time to answer three written prompts to fill out your profile. Examples include “I’m overly competitive about…”, “I’m the type of texter who…” and “I want someone who…”. You would think that not needing to write a real bio would take the pressure off, but choosing the right prompts is frustratingly difficult. Despite the time I spent carefully curating all my responses, it seems many of my fellow singles just don’t give a shit. Ah well, maybe it’s easier not caring.

As I start my journey, profile completed, my housemate walks me through the steps of liking someone’s profile. I can either like or comment on any of the photos or prompt answers that people have on their profile, and if I dislike them, simply hit the “X” and move on to the next profile. This makes it easier to comment noncommittally on someone’s fun travel photo or joke prompt answer, if you’re so inclined. I can’t say I’m a very carefree person, and I’m too scared of someone getting the wrong idea that even if someone’s profile makes me smile, I won’t comment or like.

Let’s move onto the scope of folks you will meet on Hinge. There’s the copy-paste white men with chiselled jaws and too many gym photos that make you despair for the human race. These are the self-same men who, when using the prompt “What are you weirdly competitive about?”, answer in the realm of “Everything”. This is not a personality trait, and it’s not cute. Then there are alt-men with mustaches who have at least one photo at a house party who assert that Seinfield is the best show ever (doubtful). The few queer* women on the app seem either to drink as a personality trait or crochet like their life depends on it. There’s always the few people you come across that you know, like a mate from uni whose profile you like “as a friend” (genuinely not sure if this is correct online dating etiquette, let me know), or someone you’ve worked with who likes your profile and makes you feel very awkward as a result.

Not all hope is lost though, dear readers! I have organised a singular date with one of the measly six people I’ve matched with (only three of which responded to my messages). Will this end my search for “the one”? I don’t think so, but it will probably end my experimentation with dating apps. The act of judging people on their photos and prompt responses feels superficial and makes me feel like an awful person, even though I know so many people do it and manage to find genuine connection. As I also fear the mortifying ordeal of being known, having my profile out there for everyone to see is… horrifying.

Download Hinge, or don’t. Staying single is less stressful, in my opinion.

*Editor’s note: the author now has four dates successfully planned on Hinge this week. Woroni wishes her all the best.

Party at Home

By Rucha Tathavadkar

Parties are probably the best part of everyone’s life right? Okay, maybe not for everyone, but for quite a few people. For me, partying is like a hobby. Seriously, I mean it. A hobby is something that helps you relax and that’s exactly what a party does. So parties are kinda important for me. But when the great tragic year of 2020 arrived and brought this pandemic with it, my life was turned upside down. Everything closed. Shut down! Stay at home. Go out only if you need groceries. That means no parties! Oh no!

Things started getting more normal after a couple of months and I saw a post on Facebook: ‘O-Week Party’. Finally, it’s happening! God knows how happy I was! But wait a minute — what do I see? A zoom link in the description? A zoom link? Oh. An online party. I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed. I mean, come on, how can someone even have a party online? That sounds so strange, right?

But after months of being locked up in my room and being disconnected from the outside world (seriously, how can you even feel connected with other people when most of them have their videos turned off during online lectures?), I finally had a chance to do something. I decided to give this online party a shot. I literally had nothing to lose. So I get ready and put on my favourite dress. That was the best part. It’s cold outside and if it were an in-person party, I would have had to wear my awfully heavy coat. But hey, since I’m at home with my heater set to maximum, I can wear whatever I want! Already one advantage of having an online party. I get dressed, put on my make-up and, instead of leaving my room, I sit at my desk. I open my laptop and bam! I am at the party. “Cool!” I think, “That actually saves me a lot of time.”

Now we are at the party. There are around a hundred people there, but you can see only a few. Thanks, tiny laptop screen. Everyone has turned off their mics so you receive a silent welcome. Gosh! Remember the days when you would walk into the elevator at Marie Reay and go to the 6th floor, which would be filled with people? People crowding around the food and the drinks counter, people talking to their friends. No matter how much you hate that noise, it does set the mood for the party. But here, with all the microphones muted and only a couple of faces on the screen, you start feeling a bit awkward.

Shall I turn off my video? Wait no, this is a party and not an early morning lecture. I can’t, it would be so stupid! What was the point of getting dressed then? I can’t!

I don’t turn off my video and just sit there on my chair, staring at the screen. Soon, the party begins and the host starts talking. Feels like the start of yet another lecture. Then the lecture ends and the party begins. First some dance workshops (they actually teach you some dance moves!) and then the DJ and when the DJ is up, I start dancing in my own room. There are people, but all of them are on my laptop and their audio has been muted, so I feel like I’m all alone. I go on dancing for a while and once I’m tired, I leave the zoom meeting and turn off my laptop.

Well, that’s how my first online party was. To be honest, it wasn’t that bad and since that was the only way to have a party, I couldn’t complain. But was it the same as an in-person one? No, of course not. I know in recent times, everything is online and technology has been a boon to us during this pandemic and it’s all thanks to technology that we can even have parties etc. But is it equally fun? No. Whatever you say, you need actual people around you to have fun and not just some muted faces on a laptop screen.

Parties, I believe, are the best place to socialise and meet new people, make new friends and begin your uni life with a bang. This, of course, is not possible in online parties. Online parties lack the personal element. Actual parties have a different vibe that make the party lively, while online parties feel just like a lecture. A fun lecture, but still a lecture.

It did indeed feel great to have an online party after three long months of being at home, but it still felt as if something was missing. The party noise, the chatter and gossip, the food and drink stalls were all absent. They are the life of the party and a party is incomplete without them. So, no matter how great this online thing is, it will never be able to truly replace the essence of an in-person event.