Ay, Kiddo!

I did Aikido for a while, but it’s a sport that requires discipline, patience, and humility - three things I could aspire to in the next life but not in this one. In fact, I found many of the principles and rituals ridiculous. I cannot ever beat up someone, for example. I have to wait for someone to hit me first before I can return the favor in the guise of defense.
Looking back, it’s no wonder I made a horrible student. I was in it for all the wrong reasons.

1. I wanted to lose weight. I didn’t. The only thing I became was dizzy. My sensei had me practice backflips and backrolls. I sucked miserably at both. Even worse, I ended up spending a small fortune on back massages after every session.     

2. Girls who do karate are sexy. Even bloodied and filthy, Uma was sexy as she murdered her way to Bill. Lucy Liu, Drew Barrymore, and Cameron Diaz sizzled while they kicked, clawed, and punched their way into a sequel. Quite understandably, I wanted to do karate and be sexy, too; only, it soo did not happen. Karate is arduous. You sweat and get sweated on. You’re asked to bellow out the silliest of things. If you can’t imagine how humiliating it is to shout “haaay-yah!” in front of an entire class, try doing it at work where and when only your seatmate can hear you. The snickering you’re bound to get is nothing compared to the silence that would greet you in Aikido class. The stillness makes you paranoid. Are your classmates secretly laughing at you? Did that one come out like a bleating?

3. I wanted to beat people up. No, I am not full of anger, and I do not spend my day drawing up lists of people to beat up. But, I think it would be several shades of nice to be able to assault people should I ever want to. There’s no confidence like the confidence that comes from knowing you’re capable of wrecking mayhem, but have wisely chosen not to. When you restrain yourself, you’d feel much like Spiderman when he was told “with great power comes great responsibility.” Then too, you never know when you’d run into a robber or a serial killer.

Sadly, the only bad people I ever run into are Koreans who recycle their clothing even in a country where people sweat buckets; and I very well couldn’t beat up my bosses, could I? Furthermore, I’m only capable of deflecting blows when they’re expected. This means unless the attacker thoughtfully takes the time to tell me “I’m about to attack you,” I’m a sitting duck for baddies, one and all. If you happen to know of robbers who give ample warning before they make off with your bag, send them my way. I promise to give them a sound thrashing.

4. I wanted to learn meditation. Yes, I wanted to meditate mainly because I wanted to be able to float on air. Though useless and quite freaky, being able to float on air would have been zen - very, very zen. I never got around to floating on air, however, because I am absolutely incapable of keeping still for at least ten minutes. I fidget when I’m not supposed to. I feel sleepy every time we’re told to sit still and empty our minds. I cheat during breathing exercises, not always intentionally, but consistently nonetheless.

So there, I studied Aikido but learned close to nothing. I guess the closest I will ever come to channeling my inner Bruce Lee is by watching karate films. In the darkness and with loud enough sound effects, I can pretend I’m Bruce Lee and that I’m (in the spirit of heavily butchered English translation) entering the dragon.

Oh, Lola!

Not too long ago, I lived and breathed work. Demarcating between home and the office was difficult. I was a slave to my MSN and my cellphones. The lowest I sunk to was logging onto MSN at 11:00 in the evening so I could answer some non-Filipino’s work-related queries. No, wait, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was when when I returned to Cebu for a day, in the middle of my Christmas vacation, just so I could trawl through my PC for files to send to Korea. Turned out, I had already bundled those files off for the bosses months back. There was completely no need for me to be physically in Cebu had I been informed which files were needed, for whom, and why.

But I digress. The point I’m making here is that while work still has the nasty tendency to spill onto personal hours, I’ve become better at figuring out which lines to draw and where. I turn my mobile phones off after work and on weekends, for example, and I’ve learned to say no to weekend meetings - most of the time, anyway.

Yesterday, I filed for sick leave. I wasn’t really sick sick, but I was feeling sleepy, queasy, and nauseous. So, I went home by 2pm. Imagine my surprise when this nasty old hag demanded for my landline from the secretary, despite being told that I was on sick leave, so she could phone me later that night and talk shop. When the secretary refused, she slammed the phone down. How rude, but how oh so typical of her! I told the secretary to tell her I only entertain work-related calls at home in especially mitigating circumstances - when the office is on fire, for example, or when some freak electrical charge fries all of our PCs. In the meantime, whatever she needs me for can wait until I’m in the office the next day.

This woman, who’s probably as old as Methusalah by the way, has a PhD in education. Wherever she got it, that institution sure didn’t teach her manners and communication skills. She calls new acquaintances "day" if they’re female and "dong" if they’re male. Sometimes, she remembers to call me "ma’am" but she has a special way of saying it that makes the skin crawl.

I wonder if some old people are rude because they’ve always been that way or because they think age gives them special license to act like their undies are on fire 24/7.

No Chick Lit Material

The funny thing about making Board Resolutions and Secretary Certificates all afternoon is that you see your life pass before your eyes. Epiphanies are never pleasant, unless it’s one where you win 95 million after buying lotto tickets twice.

So, about that epiphany:

I’m 25, unemployed, and waiting for life to surprise me.

This sentence would have made the perfect chick lit material, only my story (which will be maddeningly biographical from start to finish) lacks the one ingredient all chick lit novels have. I’m not insanely poor, not insanely geeky, and do not run around in neighborhoods where there’s at least a 25 percent chance I’ll get mowed down by a filthy rich person’s limo. Actually, that’s three elements; but I’m adding ‘I’m not insanely beautiful’ so that makes it four.

I’m telling you, writers lie all the time in those interviews. It’s not pain or joy or experience or imagination you need to write a book. It’s stamina; but they’re not telling you this because they do not relish the concept of competition. No one does, unless they’re dead certain they’ll win and the competition is only there to make them look even more wonderful than they already are.

Clearly, the only thing in my epiphany that has any hope of coming to fruition is the unemployed part, which I most certainly would be if I keep up this whole business of daydreaming while drafting serious - very, very serious - documents.

Chin’s Men’s Guide to People-Watching

People-watching is complicated. There are actually rules for this thing, especially if you’re male. I’ve figured out four, and they don’t even cover the tip of the iceberg. I’m sharing them with you, nonetheless, because I am generous like dut.

1. If a hottie passes by, it’s okay for you to look. After all, there’s a 95% chance I’m checking her out, too. However, you should never tell me, "she’s hot." This will make me simmer in envious rage. Wait for me to comment "She’s hot" and count up to ten before you make as if you reluctantly agree. There’s a world of difference between the two situations. The first makes me feel you’re ogling another girl because you find me wanting; the second tells me we share the same eye for beauty. 

2. If an ugly girl passes by, it’s okay for you to look and comment any way you want. If you crack a joke at her expense, I will admonish you not to be unkind. I will also spend at least five minutes pointing out her redeeming features. "She probably has to send two sisters to college, and is thus too busy to care about her looks," I’d say, thereby making you feel bad for being shallow and insensitive. However, you should not let this hurt your feelings. This is how I am when I revel in my physical superiority.

3. If a girl is wearing the same outfit I am, there is no need to point this out to me. None. I am acutely aware of it; this is why I’m walking with extra oomph. We may be wearing the same clothes, but sweet camote cue, we do not walk around in the same body. It’s easy to see who wears it better, and you may tell me this ever so discreetly.

4. Never tell me you find a guy hot. That’s gayer than Banana Republic. It will be the end of our relationship - present and future. I love you, but only Jesus and Oprah offer unconditional love with a money-back guarantee. 

Crop Circles, Mutilated Cattle, and Alien Possession in J. Panis St.

It takes a lot to make me cry. I say this dispassionately lest you take it as a challenge to push me down the stairs. It takes a lot to make me cry not because I relish pain but because we’ve had a very spartan upbringing. Yes, spartan, as in use-your-spear-if-you-want-your-next-meal spartan. I exaggerate, of course, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve had a very spartan upbringing, and this is why it takes a lot to make me cry.

I have always suspected this is one of the reasons the husband adores me. I am seldom moody. I don’t have a queasy stomach. I don’t faint at the sight of roaches, corpses, and blood. More importantly, I consider it cheating when couples calmly and methodically fight over an issue, and the woman dissolves into tears. I’m establishing the more sterling aspects of my character here because it’s the only way to demonstrate how perplexing Friday night had been for him.

I call him at 9:00 in the evening. "Please pick me up. JY."

He does. On the way home, he makes small talk but gets no response. Imagine his shock (and mine) when the waterwork started as soon as I sank into the sofa.

My diatribe, as faithfully as I can remember it: I’m tired! I’m bone-tired! I’ve never been this tired, and I hurt all over. But that’s not my problem. My problem is that I didn’t do physical work today, so I’m not supposed to hurt physically. But I do, and that’s strange, and I think it could only be because I’m stressed. I’m not supposed to be stressed. Do I look stressed to you? I think I am. No, I know I am, and because I’m stressed, I don’t even want to eat anymore. See? I don’t have an appetite, and you’ve no idea how sad, how frustrated this makes me because I really like what’s on the table. And now my feet ache, my hands ache, my neck aches. Everything aches - even my wrists and jaw. This is not right!

The husband looked at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. I clammed up, suddenly realizing how silly and strange the caterwauling was, and not at all certain I understood what I was weeping so copiously over.

I’ve stopped believing in parallel worlds, but just so you know, there are days I’m convinced aliens whiz past earth to make crop circles, mutilate cattle, and take over our faculties simply for the sheer hell of it.