Duplicitous

January 4th’s entry got me in trouble. I was accused of not having moved on from the past. Coming from a person who fostered his ex-fiancée’s delusions of reconciliation for the first 6 years that we were together, that was a pretty big hypocritical deal. I didn’t feel the need to apologize because I did nothing wrong.

The argument was unbelievable. I didn’t even want to get into it, but ignoring him was out of the question. I got sucked into the argument, which I won, by the way.

Why?

- My writing about my supersized infatuation with a guy who knows how to spell and looks like he bathes regularly is not the same as his going behind my back to email his ex. That was a long time ago, and I have since then moved on, but I needed to put it out there to make my point.

- My ability to vividly RECALL how I felt at the height of that asinine crush is not the same as his ability to vividly still FEEL for his ex.

- My writing about feeling as if I could fly whenever that crush talked to me is not the same as his actual flying to Manila (which is 8 hours away from his province) to meet her the last time he went back home. Who cares if she shouldered the expenses? That is not the point.

The hypocrite apologized.

When I was in high school, I faked being sick just so I wouldn’t have to do the debate in English class. But this is one debate I wouldn’t have backed out of. I am finally in a solid place in my life. I’ve spent enough time in my life trying not to let my insecurities eat me. I don't want his getting in my way.

Done Skydiving

I’ve always had a parachutist’s approach in life – freefalling through the years. But such freedom is limited; an extravagance that I can’t afford anymore. With maturity come all the hassles and complications brought by knowing about the harsh realities of life.

I always contradict myself. I say that I am an open book, free for everyone to read. But in reality, I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping myself vague, concealed in limited details. I don’t think anybody really knows me inside and out. The truth is I hardly know myself until about 3 or 4 years ago. That was the point in my life when I had to stop and take everything in; survey the beauty (damage) that I have managed to create. Then was the time to pull that cord of my parachute and safely land.

I used to not like looking at my life in a large scheme because I am a fan of taking things one day at a time. Maybe it stems from my fright over things that I have no power over, but then I realized that I always have a hand in everything. Sure, I don’t have a say on what God wants to throw at me, but He has equipped us with decision-making abilities and how we take that is what makes a difference.

No more whining, no more complaining.

No more wasting my time mulling over things that are beyond my control. Instead of being a drama queen and thinking that God is singling me out for cosmic punishment, I’ll take it as a compliment. Like Mother Teresa said, “God doesn’t give me anything I can’t handle.”

Of Crushes Past

Back to work for most of us.

I remember my very first job. It was a little over a couple of months after we came here to Canada from the Philippines. It was a receptionist position. I filled in for their previous one whom they would have let go anyway had she not gone on maternity leave. If I was shocked at the speed of that office’s pace, I did a good job concealing it. if I looked frazzled at times like there’s something I couldn’t calculate in my mind, or if I looked like I’m constipated, they probably assumed that my English-speaking ability tank is running on empty when truth was I had 12 lines I’ve put on hold and I’ve forgotten who they had called for.

I got the hang of it quickly and they were impressed. There was a look of pride plastered on my face that they most likely assumed was a result of the praise they gave me for a job well done. They were unaware of the smidgen of haughtiness in it for I honestly believed I could learn their jobs in less than half the time it took them to learn it, and be able to spell attorney as it is and not “athorney” on top of it all.

I started acquiring more to do outside the realm of reception. They probably rejoiced over the fact that they’ve found a pushover to do their menial work for them without complaints, but the truth is, I was simply bored out of my mind. My conscience kind of attacked, and I’ve realized that it’s not good work conduct to finish a novel and a half while on the job for 8 hours a day.

If I did a good job masking my conceit, I did exactly the opposite in hiding my intense like for someone I worked with. I didn’t tell anyone I had a big crush on this guy I’m going to hide under the name Mr. Cute and Educated, but it must have been written on the hearts in my eyes on my silly face that has a stupid grin on it every time I see him. He would take time to actually talk to me several times throughout the day, not counting the work-related instances when he did need to talk to me. He probably enjoyed my version of a blush. I’d just came from the Philippines and was therefore dark beyond what they’d call a nice tan. If I blushed, it wouldn’t have been red. Maroon, perhaps, but not the cute kind of pinkish glow I’ve read about in teensy romance books.

But I digress.  When Mr. Cute and Educated talked to me, it’s as if my body heat travels all the way up to my face and my heart seemed to have stopped and beat 3x as fast at the same time, if that’s not a virtual impossibility. I know it’s cheesy but it’s a result of having read too much Sweet Dreams and Love Stories in high school.

I was 21 at that time and he was 32. In fairness, he looked like a mature 25 instead of a youthful 32, so one cannot argue that my ability to predict a person’s age was severely impaired. I’ve always noted in my head that his and my mother’s age difference was less than ours, but in the world of a girl who’s watched one too many Sharon Cuneta movies, I only saw that as a cute story to tell our grandkids someday.

I tried to cheat myself out of the crush by saying it was a professional defense mechanism I had no control over that my body kicked into to make me want to go to work every day and not succumb to the laziness that the winter cold or my having to take a bus to work brought. But I knew at the back of my head that’s not the case. Heck, I knew at the front, left, right and top of my head that wasn’t the case.

He was cute. Half-Asian and Half-European, sort of like Jon, minus Kate and 8.  Only Mr. Cute and Educated was good-looking. I looked over his work files to try to find words he might have misspelled, or if he’s used your instead of you’re, but his grammar was always devoid of errors. One more point for him.

He would always ask me about books and movies.  I feel silly now remembering how I thought we had so much in common, and how we we're a cinematic and literary match made in heaven when millions of other people have read the same books and watched the same movies. I just grabbed on to anything that he would hand me so that my hyperactive imagination, fuelled with my stupid infatuation, can spin it into another romantic possibility. Pathetic, I know, but I couldn’t help it at that time.

If he made small talk with me and asked, “How’s it going?” or “what’s up?” my mind kicks into a higher stupidity gear and I start thinking, “Omigosh, he wants to know what I’m doing tonight.” I think he thrived on seeing me all flushed, that arrogant, cute, literate son of a gun.

He came up to my desk one time and asked me about my family and I thought, “Omigosh, he wants to know about the people I’m bringing him home to.” He asked if I can cook, to which I’ve cleverly retorted that I can set up an entertainment system, hook up the surround sound and all, but the farthest I got to cooking was pressing the start button on the microwave for a frozen dinner. He smiled that stupid, turn-my-knees-to-jelly-and-my-brain-into-a-big-blob-of-useless-matter kind of smile and he called me HIS sassy girl from then on. By the time he has completely turned around to walk away, I had chosen the song of our first dance as a couple on our wedding day.

He must have felt me still staring because he turned around to face me again and said, “Checking out my butt, eh?” Without missing a beat, I replied, “No, I’ve done that a billion times already. I’ve moved on to a different butt.” Then I pointed to the person walking in front of him whose butt I wouldn’t even give the time of day even if he didn’t have that lisp and didn’t shower anyone within 2 feet radius with saliva when he talked.

Mr. Cute and Educated laughed again, but I didn’t hear because the truth that I have indeed checked him out a lot of times was still ringing in my ears. I wouldn’t have minded missing the bus that night. I believed I could’ve floated home.

I went online as soon as I got home and reported to my guy best friend the highlight of my day, injecting romantic notions I’ve imagined in the lines that I’ve read in between Mr. Cute and Educated’s words. I was telling my guy best friend that he was going to be my male of honor, when he gave me such a reality check that he could’ve slapped me silly all the same.

He said, while laughing arrogantly for that matter, “Mr. Whatever Educated doesn’t want you for a girlfriend, you dumb girl! He’s interviewing you to be his maid!” Then he laughed even more, and the half-a-world distance that separated us is what saved him from a severe beating from me. He added, “Your Mr. Dream Guy wants to know if you still live with your family because he doesn’t want a stay in maid. He just needs you to cook for him which is why he's asked if you know how.” Then he laughed diabolically as if he was a mad scientist who just invented the cure for stupidity, and not some friend who’ve just sent another friend come crashing back to reality after living in fantasy land for so long.

Now that I think about it, my best friend did invent the cure for stupidity. MY stupidity. With a very generous dose of reality check, he pulled me out of the clouds and put an end to my silliness.

Next day at work, I saw Mr. Cute and Educated. Only then, I didn’t call him that anymore. He’s turned into Mr. Not-Bad-Looking-Who-Can-Spell. I no longer get flustered when he gave me the time of day, which, I could do well without, I’ve realized. I was able to joke freely with him. I was able to discuss books and movies with multi-syllabic words in sentences that were put together coherently, without feeling like I was going to pass out any moment. I found I liked that better.

Though it helped pass what could’ve been painfully boring days at work, and though it helped whet my creativity to the point where I could’ve written my own short story about crushes with fairytale endings, I was glad I no longer wasted my time thinking of different ways our conversations, no matter how mundane and trivial, could lead to him asking me out. I have exhausted all possibilities of how a simple “How’s it going?” could maybe turn into, “Would you have dinner with me?”

I didn’t even stop then to think about what I might have looked like from his point of view.

Gone are the days when he left me searching for better ways I could’ve answered his questions. I was finally able to just answer. Gone are the times when I’d read between lines that weren’t there. I was able to relax. After months of holding my breath when he passed by, my respiratory system returned to functioning at a human rate.

He probably wondered what happened to that girl who did all but squirm on her chair when he talked to her. The girl was replaced by a more mature girl who knew better than nourish an unrealistic infatuation with a guy who she knew wasn’t for her anyway. I got over it. Him.  And the quickness of how I was able to do that proves that he wasn't meant to resemble the groom figurine at the top of my wedding cake someday.

I said to myself then that I’d take a hiatus from liking cute and educated guys. Not long after that, I fell for a guy who’s cute in a Robin Padilla kind of way. I’ll hide him under the name Mr. Charles-Who’d-Been-Going-Out-With-His-Fiancée-For-6-Years-But-Could-Not-Resist-My-Charm.

But that’s a whole different story.

Promise to Friends

New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day are always for families. When we start spending those days with friends, it’s a sign that things have changed. These changes are not bad. I believe it’s that time when we start maturing and our relationships start evolving. It’s when we start loving our friends like family and start treating our family like friends.

I am lucky to be at that point in my life. There are not enough words to expound my gratitude that I am surrounded by these people. My appreciation for my friends and family comes from the regrettable experience of having associated myself with people whose hobbies I believe include lying, manipulating and gossiping.

It was said that when God gives you presents, He wraps them up in problems. And, boy, did God give me presents wrapped in paper with these people’s faces. They’ve said ugly things about my friends and told my friends that it all came from me. That made one close friend question me and I would like to think that my friend doesn’t believe it anymore but the fact that we didn’t even talk about it makes me doubt that we’ve gotten past it. They accused me of making a profile on one social networking site for the sole purpose of defaming one of them with a rumor that turned out to be true. It’s like they did eenie-meenie-miney-moe and I was it. Over time, I learned to forgive. I refuse to contaminate myself with thoughts about these people who I couldn’t care less for and put them on my list of things to repudiate. That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten, though. I see them and it’s a good feeling to not want to punch them. I used to wish them insatiable appetites that would drive them to obesity. You might think I'm evil because of that, but if you really, really think about it, if my wish did come true, I'd have done them a favor. See, if they did become candidates for bypass surgeries because I willed it, they would’ve had something of them that’s more than 90 (lbs in this case) because I’m sure as heck their IQs are far lower than that.

I should be thankful for them, in a way. Because of what happened, I’ve learned not to trust readily. I mean, just because we’ve had sleepovers, swapped clothes or discussed bra sizes doesn’t mean we’re going to be good friends. I’ve learned the hard way but I’m not complaining. At least I’ve learned and saved myself from further hurt and betrayal. I’ve stopped trying to be everybody’s friend from then on.

Now my friends are few but I know they’re genuine. They might not answer my calls all the time, which makes me think they’re avoiding me, but at least they don’t stab my back. They might borrow books from me that they don’t return but at least books, unlike trust, can be bought again. As part of my New Year’s resolutions, I promised myself to be more expressive about my appreciation and gratitude for these friends and not take them for granted.

When they let me raid their closets to find something appropriate to wear for a semi-formal party or when they let me drag them to the mall so I can find clothes that serve not only to cover body parts but also for me to look aesthetically pleasing, I would say thank you.

When they feed me (food or words of advice) I won’t listen to my other personalities and think they want me to be fatter than I am or that they’re meddling in my affairs. I would say merci.

When they let me cry on them or when they don’t pretend to be already sleeping when I call them at night to narrate the latest episode of my soap opera-like life, I would say gracias.

When they are concerned about the other facets of my life, I wouldn’t think they’re sticking their noses in businesses that aren’t theirs. I would say salamat.

The list is never-ending but I don’t know any other way to say thank you in other languages so I’ll stop here. Hopefully, my friends know how much they mean to me, because I plan to be in their lives (even if they’re sick and tired of me) for as long as I want them to be in mine, which is, I don’t know…forever.

Promise to Write More

For the first sentence of this entry, I typed “2nd day of the new year, period” and the system suggested, with the annoying green line, that I should change new year to New Year and that I should consider revising the line itself because there’s something wrong with the “fragment”. I didn’t want to correct it because this is my thing and I can be as grammatically improper as I want to be but in the end, Microsoft 2003 won. I think that says a lot about how conscious I am with my work that even the computer influences me. I mean, if Microsoft Word can tell me how my entries should be, I don’t even want to think about what other people would say because I for sure would end up not doing anything at all. Then again, I’m trying to change and I am doing this for me, so really, I don’t care. Well, I’m trying not to. See, that last sentence was given another green line and I didn’t change it.

If I am going to do this, I should learn to just type away and not worry about insignificant things. I shouldn’t try to be all witty to the point where I’m stuck because I’m having a tough time trying to make something funny when it isn’t. I shouldn’t try to be like the other diarists whose lives are much more complex than mine. Samuel Pepys wrote about elbowing his wife on her face and nose when he suddenly woke up on the 1st of January 1662. That was his entire entry. So maybe I shouldn’t care that much about how to make my days as a home day care provider look more interesting than it actually is. I should just let the pen (or mechanical pencil) flow. I mean, no matter how interesting my life gets, it would always pale in comparison to other people's lives. For example, the 1 ½ hours I spent at the police station for assault is nothing compared to what Anne Frank had written about her days stuck in the attic while Hitler nursed his superiority complex.

I’ve always set such high standards for myself to the point where it’s virtually impossible to meet them. Then I end up not happy with myself, which is why I can’t ever finish some of the things that I’ve started (if I even start doing something in the first place). I mean, I can’t always be grammatically correct. I can’t always draw and not have to erase as much as I do. I can’t always cook beef and expect it to not taste like chicken at times. I know we should always strive to be better people but I can’t always beat myself up if what I do doesn’t measure up to my idea of how good it should be. And besides, being a better person doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not one knows when to use “their” instead of “they’re” or whether or not they know what onomatopoeia is. From now on, I would just type away.

Instead of trying to rack my brain for 3 or 4-syllabe words to replace boring monosyllabic ones, I would use that energy to refrain (lessen) hurling (thinking) insults to anyone. Instead of reading what I’ve written over and over again checking for spelling or grammatical errors, I would look at myself and try to eliminate MY errors.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year!!!

There’s this book called “The Daily Journal of Kindness” by Meladee and Hanoch McCarty (of Chicken Soup for the Soul) that I bought almost 5 years ago that’s been sitting on my bookshelf gathering dust. It’s like a diary, the date on every page, starting with the 1st of January until the 31st of December. What sets it apart from your ordinary diary is that this book is infused with quotations, passages and how-tos of being kind not only to yourself but to others. I looked at January 1st’s page and saw that I’ve written on it 5 years ago. I turned to January 2nd, 3rd, 4th and opened the book randomly and discovered that January 1st is the only entry. I didn’t even want to think about what that says about me. I know. I’m the kind of person who starts without finishing. Bad habit, I am fully aware of that, but I can’t seem to shake it off.

Another indication of that bad habit is my numerous diaries. I start quite religiously, as in everyday, then it dwindles to once a week, then it slows down until you can see a pattern. A pattern that would suggest I only write when something’s truly bothering me to the point where I think I would drive friends to self-induced comas if I try to tell them. Those are the pages that are streaked with tears with writings so hard you can read them on the next 2 pages.

I want to change that, really. But realizing that I need to and wanting to do it is not the same as actually doing it. I have no idea if I can keep this up but I sure as heck would try. I say I’m doing this for me but the fact that I’m publishing it online for all to see says that I’m also doing it for others, who I know couldn’t care less about what’s going on in my life but all the same, I would like for this to be as good as it can be.

Good luck to me. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.