Double Whammies Coming Up

In my chronic struggle with obesity, I have been yoyo-ing from being morbidly obese to being hideously fat. Either way, I’ve always been fat. This has been the case for the last 23 years, since I had my last normal BMI when I was in Grade 1. As far as I can remember, I was already heavier than a sack of rice since I was 8 years old. During that time, when kids my age were still being thrown around by their dads like little monkeys moving from one tree branch to another, I was already stuck on the ground, moping like a depressed Mommy King-Kong who can’t heave herself up to the lowest branch of a tree strong enough to carry a ton.

So when the well-meaning, health-conscious IM residents announced that they are holding a second season of the IM Biggest Loser contest, I was one of the first to sign up. Again. Last March, these residents, who, for some strange reasons, suddenly became staunch advocates of healthy lifestyles, launched the first season of IMBL with much fanfare, and I also enthusiastically joined in. After 3 weeks of gorging on Sibutramine, Metformin, and various diuretics, I had a bout of annoying premature ventricular contractions that paralyzed me for a day. So despite the loss of more than 5 kgs, I spent the next weeks regaining what I had lost, feasting on chicharon, lechon, and deep-fried galunggong over heaps of steaming rice during my leave. By the start of May, I was back to where I started – all four weeks of running along Roxas all the way to Mall of Asia, horrendous starvation, and ridiculously expensive weight-loss pharmacologic armamentarium – flushed down my Xenical-induced-lipid-laden-feces-stained toilet bowl.

Ugh! Yuck! I’m exaggerating of course. But you get the idea, don’t you? I’m fat! I’ve been fat for as long as I can remember. And I absolutely hate it!

I want to wear that bikini. I want to walk around PGH wearing nothing under my white coat except an ultra-short, spaghetti-strapped dress, uhm, negligee!

So I signed up. After my embarrassing stint with IMBL season 1, I’m trying my luck again in IMBL season 2. The pot money is almost three times that of IMBL 1, and the contestants are a gazillion times more competitive. There’s a huge chance that I wasted another one thousand bucks over a senseless competition I have no chance of winning. But who cares? I want that bikini!

One shouldn’t count thy chicks before thy eggs are hatched. But I have to lose all this fat to save my eggs, right?

And with a 26K pot, who knows what I can get if I win? Perhaps, I might actually come across a hot man for sale - and finally afford it.

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In five days, I’ll be having the time of my life.

(Enter David Cook singing “I’ll taste every moment and live it out loud, I know this is the time, this is the time of my life…”

And Carrie Underwood singing “A moment like this, some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this…”)

I can already imagine myself, all my overweight, clumsy self – up on a giant billboard over EDSA, all smiling and Sarah-Geronimo-like gorgeous. By Saturday, I’ll be a superstar, a stunning supermodel, I’ll be the queen of the world!

In five days, I’ll be flying down south. And when I step off the plane, there they will be, from opposite spectra of my life, both frozen in a single moment – the two men I adore, both dashing and debonair, impossibly straight and still single –and they are both so into me.

As my two best buddies, that is.

Huhuhu, what can an ordinary-looking nobody like me expect, of course. Sigh. Twice the dream, double the tragedy, and multiply the pain many times over. Ugh.

Move over, Kris Aquino, the drama is mine this time. Not!

I Need a Haircut!

I need to get a haircut. This sweltering summer heat is rendering my withered and mummified brain useless that I could not think beyond the blistering El Nino sun and the persistent and annoying beading of sweat on my brow. Even the art of staying still that I have long ago mastered is futile in decreasing the temperature to within physiologic levels. This heat is so oppressive that a lot of women I know are shedding off their prized and expensively pampered manes for the chic and slightly more summer-friendly bob. But that is not the reason why I need that haircut.

You see I need to return to Earth. That’s the literal translation for the warning my brain is currently sending me every day. If my brain is a Jejemon, that message would have looked like this: “eow poh, ang jaba na ng jair mhow, jejeje”.

Let me tell you why.

After years of traveling on my own, and whining about the loneliness and the ludicrous expense of solo backpacking, this June will be an entirely different story. The sudden change of my traveling affairs is so shocking and revolutionary in nature that even as early as today, the first day of June, and still a long way before my planned adventure, I can barely contain my excitement. I finally found that ever elusive, first-rate travel company. For this upcoming Independence Day long weekend, I and my elite travel group will be exploring South Cotabato, Sarangani, and General Santos City – which incidentally, is the realm of the Greatest Hero of Jejemons - Congressman-elect Manny Pacquiao.

Before I completely spill the beans on this trip and this premium, hand-picked group and inadvertently spoil everything, I’d keep my mouth shut. My recent rendezvous with disenchantment and heartbreak has taught me a lot of things. I have stopped crafting plans that will only get spoiled. I have stopped making expectations that will only fall short. I have stopped hoping to avoid disappointment.

Suffice it to say, what could be better than traveling with two of your greatest friends? Traveling with two of your hottest, most amazing, smartest, coolest, cutest, single male friends! One of them is someone I have known more than half of my life, the other one is someone I met in the strangest most outrageously unexpected way. But both are wonderful people – definitely the two men I measure everyone else against (the third is my dad). And they both happen to be straight!!! Waaaah! Ang haba na talaga ng hair ko.

Oh well. Earth to Jean. Earth to Jean.

Today, in preparation for that much-awaited trip, I went to my hairdresser and got that much needed haircut.

Oh well.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive at where we started and know the place for the first time."- TS Eliot

Atrophy Due to Chronic Disuse

This morning, one of my old friends (and few loyal blog followers) sternly reminded me that I have been irresponsibly neglecting my blogging duties. She was probably wondering if I had found myself a love life or something. I’m not the type who gets distracted from my on-line life, which, in my dismal, anonymous, and bored existence happens to be the only semblance of life that I have. Not even a toxic 24-hour duty could keep me from a 2-hour-a-day RDA of on-line time, staring at empty space, crunching on keyboards, ruminating about nothing particularly important.

Because of this gentle admonition, I decided to squeeze my brain for anything worth writing about, which basically boils down to nothing. Nothing. I wring and I mangle and I squeeze some more. Still, there’s nothing.

Hence, this post.

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Because I mentioned it above, I could not help but discuss one of my life’s most circumvented existential questions: So, Jean, since you’ve been absent from blogging and even your Facebook is relatively quiet these days, does this mean that you’re already having the time of your life romping around and getting laid? So, how’s the state of your love life?

Nah. WTF! Let’s not proceed to that issue. This is El Nino time and I’m as dry as the Sahara desert. And since I am a doctor and I subscribe to medical facts, I have to say that my ovaries, uterus, and cervix are currently in a pathetic state of atrophy. Atrophy from disuse, such that they have already undergone spontaneous degeneration and apoptosis. And my myocardium? It’s a festering, moldy, hopeless piece of trashy tissue not even the dogs would have it for dinner.

Not that it’s any different from two years ago when I stared blogging. The state of my love life is still the same. I am now just more aware of its wretchedness.

Next blog entry please…