Hello from above the clouds — QF158, three hours away from home. I’m tired. I want to take off my bra. But more than that, I’m filled with existential dread about the Melbourne immigration queue — a uniquely Melbourne Airport brand of hell.
Why am I writing this? No clue. I also have no idea why I haven’t done anything to improve my situation in the air— like ditching my stretchy pants or setting my boobs free.
I want to. God, I want to. But I’m too tired to move.
Also? I am wary of the airplane food this time because I’m already feeling bloated.
I was woken up by a fire alarm at 1 AM and then again at 3. Then 5 AM was like a horror movie sequel no one asked for. PTSD flashbacks to that Cairns hotel fire drill at 2 AM kept hitting me. And the only thought racing through my mind? Please don’t make me face my colleagues like this — bare-faced, bleary-eyed, and with unshaven legs.
Eventually, I gave in. Crawled out of bed at 5:51 AM, dragged myself into the shower, packed up, and sat in my hotel room like a sad little corporate ghost — eating New Zealand yogurt I found in the corner of the hotel fridge, fully dressed, spiraling about life, and trying to absorb confidence through a business women’s podcast.
I barely stayed conscious in the Auckland office today. Yawning on repeat, eyes heavy, brain somewhere over the Pacific. The only thing that could save me? Melbourne coffee. Yes, I was being that Melbourne brat. No, I don’t regret it.
Eventually, we got lunch. New Zealand-style dumplings, drenched in a glorious mess of sauces. It was weird. It was good. I think I love it now.
I’m exhausted. But maybe… I will eat the airplane food after all.
Follow the journey on Instagram @KultureKween.
