Sunday Gluttony

I’m sitting in a fast-food chain in Box Hill North on this sunny, friendly Sunday as the last throes of Winter attempt to make themselves known by occasionally pushing a cloud across the sky; temporarily blocking the dominating sunshine.

It’s noisy in here. Five to ten men in their early to mid-twenties line up, waiting for their burgers and grunting monosyllabic words at one another that only they can understand. A children’s party is in full swing in the playground and the room adjoining it. Children are screaming as the excitement of a burger and chips is all too much for them to manage. A young family sit at the table beside me, the mother chastises the son for pushing too many chips into his mouth as the father reads the paper and looks like he’d prefer to be anywhere else.

I sit here, a burnt coffee beside me, watching these scenes unfold and hating myself for being here. I haven’t spent one hour in here just so I can soak in the sounds and smells of clogged arteries. I’m not wasting my only free day this week eating burgers that taste like regret and an impending heart-attack. I’m in here because my house has no access to the internet.

It is only now, as I began writing this that I realise how very desperate things have gotten if I’ve found myself sitting in an establishment I despise, buying a $4.15 burnt coffee just so I can take advantage of their slow internet connection. I’m totally aware that my first world problems are apparent here – but it’s been a tough three weeks!

Upon moving house at the end of July, my housemate and I have had problems with our internet provider and haven’t been able to get a connection. This has resulted in us using our iPhones (I know, I know... I hate myself for writing it too) in order to get our day to day internet-based responsibilities sorted. Paying bills, contacting people to organise work-related and social-based meetings, even using it for research for both of our courses. If I didn’t already hate technology, having to squint at a tiny screen at 8.30pm on a Tuesday in order to answer an important email has definitely left me wishing for the days when I didn’t rely on it so much.

I am in total agreement that I’m a spoilt digital native. I have an iPhone and internet access at work. Not having internet at home for three weeks isn’t a big deal. I know, I know. But for a digital native, it is.

I’m not proud of it, but I am whole-heartedly, absolutely and totally addicted to the internet. I scan the pages of Facebook several times a day to see what is going on with my ‘friends’. I check my emails at least once every two hours. I read several blogs a day and have a regular date with YouTube. I had no idea I was this bad until all of a sudden I couldn’t do it.

As a teacher, sitting in a classroom of 25 students under fifteen years of age, you would always find me rolling my eyes and telling them that they can hand-write something because they shouldn’t be so reliant on computers. When was the last time I hand-wrote anything more than a paragraph? I don’t want to tell you. I’m a hypocrite and a traitor and I am ashamed of myself.

As I sit here, at rock bottom as a toddler attempts to be cute as he sits at the table across from me (you know, when they look at you and smile and you’re expected to play along, even after five minutes when you’re bored and they have chip vomit on their face? Not today kid, not today!) and the chaos of twenty four-year-olds in the midst of a sugar-comedown starts to take its toll; I know I have a problem.

Part of me wants to take myself home, turn off my phone, pick up a pen and paper and write. Just write.

Another part of me wants to order a burger, listen to my music and continue scanning the web for blogs as I accept my situation and give in to the consumerism and reliance on technology that is expected of me and my generation.

I’ll write when I get home, I’m thinking to myself as I push the buds of my earphones into my ear canals and crank the volume up to drown out the sounds of Sunday gluttony and my self-disgust.