Melbourne, my Melbourne

Every now and then I catch a glimpse of my old office building and I begin to pine for the skyscrapers collecting dust beneath my bed.  I miss the click clack of heels in a marble foyer.  I miss the Collins Street incline.  Hell, I even miss hook turns.

I want water cooler discussion to reinvigorate my passion for Super Coach.  I want to say the f word like no body (under four) is listening.  I heard Swanston Street is now home to a Creperie and I still haven’t gotten over Mexican food starting a movement without me.

It’s all too easy to romanticize my home town but ‘working for the man’ wasn’t all coffee and cussing.  I don’t miss the inequality of salaries based on gender.  I don’t miss nobody caring if you started at eight, but calling meetings over a 4:55pm departure.  I don’t miss nepotism or Bcc’s.  Workplace bullying or B2B’s.

Maybe I’m just pining for the free spirit inside that children somehow manage to temporarily squash.  My husband and I like to debate about whose wings have been clipped the most by way of flying around the loungeroom (I still say mine).

Sometimes it pays to quit the whining and pining and be grateful for the choices I made.  For even having choices at all.  Melbourne might hold some of my heart but that doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t enjoy her quirks.  And what’s not to enjoy about a city that teaches your children the fine art of graffiti?

Are there high heels collecting dust under your bed too?