Around two weeks ago, I was at the peak of my maternal desires. I had this intense, compelling need to have someone that came from me, not just a work of art or craft, but someone alive and capable of affection. I wanted to have a child! This was most likely triggered by that disgusting news about a neonate found in an airplane's trash bin. But then again, perhaps it was only just about time. At 30 years old, my aging ovaries are probably desperate for a chance to procreate, a chance for them to transmit their mitochondrial DNA to someone I could love and who, in all likelihood, will actually love me back.
With these maternal instincts so strong and troublesome, I decided to do something about it. Desperate as I was, Fate played a helping hand by allowing me to stumble upon this hilarious ad. Simply because the ad was strange and ridiculous, I emailed the guy. Nope, the man behind it was not even half as psychotic as I expected him to be. He seemed like your everyday kind of guy with a not-so-ordinary way of looking at the world - traits that made the idea more appealing. I happen to believe that peculiarity and eccentricity are an asset - they are the vital ingredients for an adventure.
To make a long story short, I was actually crazy enough to meet with the guy. He didn't seem to sound like a hoax. Seem - being the operative word. It would have been exciting if I took this deal hook, line, and sinker. But I didn't. I begged for one more year. One more year to find someone. One more year to do things the normal way. One more year to be hit by that proverbial stray bullet. One more year to be struck by lightning on a clear day. Sorry, my dear eggs, but I was not brave enough to indulge you yet. Let's give it one more year to wait and see. But if nobody comes along, then we will cross the Rubicon and cast the die.
My huge baby project would have to wait. But I'm sure glad there are still crazy people in this planet bizaare enough to give me my Plan B.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Happily Never After
I haven't been writing lately. A deficiency of inspiration could not be blamed for this hiatus. It must be my advancing age and its occasionally irritating attribute which some people call prudence, but which I'd rather call caution. Anyone who wears her heart outside her shirt is bound to get that restless piece of muscle infected or traumatized, and considering the frailty of my memory and my extraordinary carelessness, I'd forget mine and leave it lying around somewhere unattended until it disintegrates into humus. Because of this "caution" issue, I've decided to write more carefully, to use figures of speech and attempt to conjure images that my readers will find to be senseless. So no one will even suspect that that monstrous, histrionic, maniacal thing that's trying to catch your attention is still my bleeding cardiac tissue.
So there, this is all rubbish. Bollocks to this! But this is all I could manage for now.
Lately I've been having dreams. Not those nocturnal ones that come when one is in stage III delta-wave level slumber. I'm referring to those types that cross our minds in the middle of our most boring occupations, when we wish we're somewhere doing something else. Here goes.
Two months ago, in the middle of a heated weight-loss competition, I wanted to be an authentic anorexic. You know, like those Karen Carpenter types who have body dysmorphia, who think they're overweight when their waists are in fact already as narrow as my upper arm. I pictured myself with a 20-inch waist, eating a leaf of lettuce for lunch, and a stick of carrot for dinner (which, I'd most likely puke out anyway, after skillful manipulation of my tonsils and uvula). Ahhh, to weigh a quarter of my current weight. That must be heaven!
I ended up in McDonald's eating a Big Mac. So much for anorexics, huh.
Last month, because of the mountains of stuff I had to finish, I envisioned myself as a workaholic. You know, like those Devil-Wears-Prada-Cruella-DeVille types who will stop at nothing to earn the big bucks. Or maybe I can work all day and all night to discover the cure for the common cold, or the ultimate no-side-effect-instant-weight loss pill and live like royalty until the day I die. Yeah, I could probably be that girl. I'm smart and people do think I'm competent, right? I can be ruthlessly competitive, ambitious, materialistic. I'd have decreased need for sleep, finish hundreds of research papers. I'd be the wonder-woman-of-medicine-who-succeeds-in-everything! Perfect!
I ended up sleeping. When I woke up, my poor old Braunwald textbook was smudged by the crusted saliva from my drooling.
And then came Venus Raj. Two weeks ago, I wanted to be Ms. Universe. I'd be a 22 year-old with a 22-inch waistline, standing 5'11" who looks vavavaoom hot in a bikini, and even hotter in her painted birthday suit. I'd wear a stunning cocktail dress with my cleavage out there for the whole world to fancy. I will be so glamorous and beautiful and perfect that Harry Trump himself decided right then and there to buy out the company that produces Barbie and name the doll Jean, in my honor, of course. Oh geeeez, if that was me in Vegas that day, the Philippines would have had it's new Ms. Universe. Even the president will leave his girlfriend just to kiss the ground I walked on! Aaaargh!
Oh well. I ended up in the Cardiac Cath Lab, pressing on a femoral artery after pulling out an arterial sheath at 3 in the morning. Yeah right. I can't even wear 3-inch heels!
Today, I finally realized what I really wanted out of life. All I really want to do is finish my Cardiology training, settle down in a beautiful town somewhere south, have a small but noble practice, teach in a reputable medical school, travel around the country or overseas once in a while. I'll marry a good man who is smart enough to talk to me for hours and comfortable enough to be silent with me for hours, who happen to find me as his best friend and his indispensable travel buddy, and who adores me and loves me and looks at me like I'm the prettiest woman in the world. We'll have 3 or 4 kids, some dogs, a cat, a neat little house with a huge lawn for a garden. On weekends, we'll have picnics and lunches at our own dainty hut by a quiet beach. Breeze on our faces, joy, laughter, contentment. Love. Ahhh, love. Yes, I'm that shallow. A happily ever after is all I'm really after.
Duh. Being the other dreams seem a lot easier to come by.
OK. I give up. I'll settle for Ms. Universe.
So there, this is all rubbish. Bollocks to this! But this is all I could manage for now.
Lately I've been having dreams. Not those nocturnal ones that come when one is in stage III delta-wave level slumber. I'm referring to those types that cross our minds in the middle of our most boring occupations, when we wish we're somewhere doing something else. Here goes.
Two months ago, in the middle of a heated weight-loss competition, I wanted to be an authentic anorexic. You know, like those Karen Carpenter types who have body dysmorphia, who think they're overweight when their waists are in fact already as narrow as my upper arm. I pictured myself with a 20-inch waist, eating a leaf of lettuce for lunch, and a stick of carrot for dinner (which, I'd most likely puke out anyway, after skillful manipulation of my tonsils and uvula). Ahhh, to weigh a quarter of my current weight. That must be heaven!
I ended up in McDonald's eating a Big Mac. So much for anorexics, huh.
Last month, because of the mountains of stuff I had to finish, I envisioned myself as a workaholic. You know, like those Devil-Wears-Prada-Cruella-DeVille types who will stop at nothing to earn the big bucks. Or maybe I can work all day and all night to discover the cure for the common cold, or the ultimate no-side-effect-instant-weight loss pill and live like royalty until the day I die. Yeah, I could probably be that girl. I'm smart and people do think I'm competent, right? I can be ruthlessly competitive, ambitious, materialistic. I'd have decreased need for sleep, finish hundreds of research papers. I'd be the wonder-woman-of-medicine-who-succeeds-in-everything! Perfect!
I ended up sleeping. When I woke up, my poor old Braunwald textbook was smudged by the crusted saliva from my drooling.
And then came Venus Raj. Two weeks ago, I wanted to be Ms. Universe. I'd be a 22 year-old with a 22-inch waistline, standing 5'11" who looks vavavaoom hot in a bikini, and even hotter in her painted birthday suit. I'd wear a stunning cocktail dress with my cleavage out there for the whole world to fancy. I will be so glamorous and beautiful and perfect that Harry Trump himself decided right then and there to buy out the company that produces Barbie and name the doll Jean, in my honor, of course. Oh geeeez, if that was me in Vegas that day, the Philippines would have had it's new Ms. Universe. Even the president will leave his girlfriend just to kiss the ground I walked on! Aaaargh!
Oh well. I ended up in the Cardiac Cath Lab, pressing on a femoral artery after pulling out an arterial sheath at 3 in the morning. Yeah right. I can't even wear 3-inch heels!
Today, I finally realized what I really wanted out of life. All I really want to do is finish my Cardiology training, settle down in a beautiful town somewhere south, have a small but noble practice, teach in a reputable medical school, travel around the country or overseas once in a while. I'll marry a good man who is smart enough to talk to me for hours and comfortable enough to be silent with me for hours, who happen to find me as his best friend and his indispensable travel buddy, and who adores me and loves me and looks at me like I'm the prettiest woman in the world. We'll have 3 or 4 kids, some dogs, a cat, a neat little house with a huge lawn for a garden. On weekends, we'll have picnics and lunches at our own dainty hut by a quiet beach. Breeze on our faces, joy, laughter, contentment. Love. Ahhh, love. Yes, I'm that shallow. A happily ever after is all I'm really after.
Duh. Being the other dreams seem a lot easier to come by.
OK. I give up. I'll settle for Ms. Universe.
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