THE OTHER PEAK HOUR
Next time you find yourself nose deep in armpit at five-eighteen on the West Maribyrnong tram, surrounded by briefcases, polyphonic ring tones and ads for Dimetapp, take comfort that you don’t have to share a train with teenagers. Many of us do.
Catching public transport between three and four in the afternoon is, quite simply, hell. There are high-pitched voices everywhere, embellished with the misconstrued use of well-loved profanities. Prepare to be trodden on, giggled at and repeatedly belted with the pointy end of an overstuffed backpack.
Granted, if you can overlook all this, the ‘other’ peak hour makes for amusing eavesdropping. Counting how many times the word ‘like’ is used in one conversation is a good way to pass the time, as is discovering that in Toorak, boob jobs are being discussed by teenage girls in the same way we once contemplated having our belly buttons impaled by tiny pieces of metal. “As long as you won’t, like, regret it or anything, like that’s what my mum reckons”. Later, I overhear the very same quotable, orange coloured teen say the f word to her mother over a shiny pink flip phone.
The most frightening thing about this hidden peak hour is the memory it conjures of high school itself. Whether you were a bully, a geek, a loner or just a little too lanky, you’re likely to spot a slightly smellier, more annoying version of your juvenile self amidst the sea of uniforms. Perhaps it is the distance now safely between Generation Y and our adolescence, that tempts us to use the phrase ‘the good old days’. Perhaps I pick on teenagers because, with varying degrees of relief and envy, I’m no longer one of them. But as cringe-worthy as our own memories of high school are, surely we weren’t that bad?
Some of us are beginning to sound like our parents. We are witnessing the decline of good manners and innocence. What’s worse, we’re telling our friends about it, using sentences that begin with “kids these days”.
Is it the duty of grown ups (and at twenty-four, I hesitate to call myself one), to bemoan the loss of our youth and all that went with it? Or do a few years away from the playground rob us of empathy? Until recently, I often whined about the way kids on the train take an entire extra seat for their backpacks, until a similar complaint in the MX newspaper, was met with a letter of response by a spirited teen. It reminded commuters what it’s like to carry around a tonne of books, a change of clothes, and heavy sports shoes all day. It’s easy to forget what it felt like. Seven shoe sizes in one year, being treated both as a child and an adult and discovering that boys read Dolly Doctor for fun (the fortress of bold pink lettering, apparently not as impenetrable to the male mind as I’d first hoped).
Or, maybe things really have changed. If recent tram-time observations are anything to go by, teenage girls don’t read Dolly anymore. They’ve found glossier, classier ways of learning new words for penis, in the pages of Cosmo. Visiting solariums seems common practice. It is so rare to see a teenager give up their seat that each time it happens I find myself squinting at the logo on the kid’s blazer, with the intention of ringing the principal and commending the exemplary behaviour of their students. As I navigate the obstacle course of backpacks, cricket bats and iPods between me and the tram doors, the words of our ancestors ring in my ears. Kids these days just ain’t what they used to be.
Next time you find yourself nose deep in armpit at five-eighteen on the West Maribyrnong tram, surrounded by briefcases, polyphonic ring tones and ads for Dimetapp, take comfort that you don’t have to share a train with teenagers. Many of us do.
Catching public transport between three and four in the afternoon is, quite simply, hell. There are high-pitched voices everywhere, embellished with the misconstrued use of well-loved profanities. Prepare to be trodden on, giggled at and repeatedly belted with the pointy end of an overstuffed backpack.
Granted, if you can overlook all this, the ‘other’ peak hour makes for amusing eavesdropping. Counting how many times the word ‘like’ is used in one conversation is a good way to pass the time, as is discovering that in Toorak, boob jobs are being discussed by teenage girls in the same way we once contemplated having our belly buttons impaled by tiny pieces of metal. “As long as you won’t, like, regret it or anything, like that’s what my mum reckons”. Later, I overhear the very same quotable, orange coloured teen say the f word to her mother over a shiny pink flip phone.
The most frightening thing about this hidden peak hour is the memory it conjures of high school itself. Whether you were a bully, a geek, a loner or just a little too lanky, you’re likely to spot a slightly smellier, more annoying version of your juvenile self amidst the sea of uniforms. Perhaps it is the distance now safely between Generation Y and our adolescence, that tempts us to use the phrase ‘the good old days’. Perhaps I pick on teenagers because, with varying degrees of relief and envy, I’m no longer one of them. But as cringe-worthy as our own memories of high school are, surely we weren’t that bad?
Some of us are beginning to sound like our parents. We are witnessing the decline of good manners and innocence. What’s worse, we’re telling our friends about it, using sentences that begin with “kids these days”.
Is it the duty of grown ups (and at twenty-four, I hesitate to call myself one), to bemoan the loss of our youth and all that went with it? Or do a few years away from the playground rob us of empathy? Until recently, I often whined about the way kids on the train take an entire extra seat for their backpacks, until a similar complaint in the MX newspaper, was met with a letter of response by a spirited teen. It reminded commuters what it’s like to carry around a tonne of books, a change of clothes, and heavy sports shoes all day. It’s easy to forget what it felt like. Seven shoe sizes in one year, being treated both as a child and an adult and discovering that boys read Dolly Doctor for fun (the fortress of bold pink lettering, apparently not as impenetrable to the male mind as I’d first hoped).
Or, maybe things really have changed. If recent tram-time observations are anything to go by, teenage girls don’t read Dolly anymore. They’ve found glossier, classier ways of learning new words for penis, in the pages of Cosmo. Visiting solariums seems common practice. It is so rare to see a teenager give up their seat that each time it happens I find myself squinting at the logo on the kid’s blazer, with the intention of ringing the principal and commending the exemplary behaviour of their students. As I navigate the obstacle course of backpacks, cricket bats and iPods between me and the tram doors, the words of our ancestors ring in my ears. Kids these days just ain’t what they used to be.
