Oh no. I'm sorry. I tried to avoid this. This blog is supposed to talk about anything substantial (ie something people can learn from, laugh at, or ponder on), but this is the second consecutive post about you. I don't think anybody is reading this blog anymore, anyway. My last entry, which was entirely about you, only garnered 11 reads as of now. So I figured it's probably safe to just blabber on. I need some form of catharsis for my thoughts. And since you're my secret crush, there really is nobody I can talk to about you. So I might as well put my thoughts in writing, lest I would someday forget about it.
Honestly, I feel weird writing about crushes. Geeez, I'm old, old enough to be labeled a spinster, actually. I wonder why I still get these silly "kilig" feelings whenever you're around. Can anybody give the exact English translation of that word? I don't think anybody can. But I know how that feels. Thanks to you.
Anyway, what I'm trying to say is this. I miss you. Terribly. You're out there somewhere far away right now, and it would be several days before you'll be back home. Knowing you're away makes me lonely. Well, we really don't see each other all the time, even if you're home. But the fact that you're around, just a few kilometers away from where I work, energizes me somehow. I always look forward to this little possibility of bumping into you in the most unlikely places, in restaurants, in malls, in streets, wherever. Fate has given us several chances of bumping into each other, actually. I said "it's a small world". You said "it's serendipity".
Since you left the city, I've been in a daze. I walk around mindlessly, not looking at people's faces, not staring at license plates of lithium-colored trucks. I've been having breakfast and coffee at the usual places, but I didn't really care about the next person who walks through the door. The certainty that I will never bump into you drains me of my usual enthusiasm for the city. Since you left, I feel my age more. I'm an old lady who feels old.
Do you ever think of me from where you are now? Are you also staring at the scenery mindlessly because you know you will never find me there? Do you also look forward to coming home because you miss our conversations and our laughter and this tiny weeny possibility that you'd bump into me in the most unlikely places?
I hope you do.
I look forward to having you home. Please come see me as soon as you can.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
An Open Letter to A Secret Crush. From a Girl Who's No Longer Young.
I have a confession to make. I like you. I really do. I wish you'll never find out. But I'm writing this anyway. I don't think you read my blog so I think my secret is safe here. Or maybe I wish you will find out somehow, without me having to tell you in person. It scares me that you'll find out, and yet I would really really like you to know how I feel. So here goes. I'm shrouding you in a veil of anonymity, translucent though it is. I'm not making sense here. But my point is, I like you. I really do.
I know I'm no longer young. And you're far from young either. As a wise and grown-up lady, I should just have told you how I feel, straight, without metaphors or jargon. There's nothing to be scared of, really. I'm sure you've been through this before, with other women. And I've felt this way before too, for other men. But for some strange unexplainable reason, I still could not muster enough courage to tell you in person.
Call me a coward, or a sissie, or childish and immature. Call me a prude, call me frigid. But when you're with me I just become quiet. I am speechless for things that matter, but verbose on the less important things. Things such as politics and waterfalls and India, things of no consequence at all that I tend to forget about them in a moment. Why do we keep talking about these little things and so painstakingly steer away from talk of feelings and dreams and family and past relationships? It's unnatural. It's tiresome. It's making us drift apart just as soon as we as we get an inch too close for comfort.
But still the same, I like you. There's a mystery about you that I could not explain. Your ideas fascinate me. Your kindness and your vision impress me. I enjoy the way you make me laugh, love the way you make me think. I very rarely meet a man who knows the books I read, sings the songs I sing, and dreams of the adventures I long to do. But maybe they're all in my head. maybe you're just being you. Perhaps the reason why I like you is because I don't know you enough. Or I don't know you at all (though I would like to believe that that is not true, maybe I do know you a bit). Whether you are real or imagined, I do know that I really enjoy every moment I have with you. I think you are amazing. I think you are magical.
These feelings I indulge in now should have been extinct a decade ago. I don't recall feeling this way since college. And now these teenage feelings haunt me again, and they're more ferocious and intense than ever. Crushes are supposed to be for teens, not for middle-aged cardiologists. I'm 34 but I get these butterflies in my stomach whenever our eyes meet. My little heart leaps whenever you smile. There's a shiver in my spine when the back of your hand lightly touches my arm. My knees turn into jelly whenever you hold my hand. Haven't you noticed that whenever we're together, there's a silly smile plastered on my face? You make me sing - in the car, while walking, while drinking beer. Geeesh, you even made me dance once, and I never dance. Since i met you, this old woman is a little girl all over again, a silly, lovestruck, little girl crazy over her first crush. Thank you for that.
I'm not expecting anything. I don't expect that you'll like me back. Let's just stay how we are. Let's just talk and laugh, and sing and dance, and walk and travel. We need not talk about the serious stuff. We can just talk about the usual things - politics, the city, mountains, Nepal, and that neighbor you have. You need not be with me whenever I ask you for your company (which is practically all the time, at least in my head, I just don't tell you about it). Let's just take it slow, so slow, as slow as you would want it to be.
But I really like you. I really do. And if you get to read this, please, just give me a sign that you've read this and I'll finally tell you about it.
I know I'm no longer young. And you're far from young either. As a wise and grown-up lady, I should just have told you how I feel, straight, without metaphors or jargon. There's nothing to be scared of, really. I'm sure you've been through this before, with other women. And I've felt this way before too, for other men. But for some strange unexplainable reason, I still could not muster enough courage to tell you in person.
Call me a coward, or a sissie, or childish and immature. Call me a prude, call me frigid. But when you're with me I just become quiet. I am speechless for things that matter, but verbose on the less important things. Things such as politics and waterfalls and India, things of no consequence at all that I tend to forget about them in a moment. Why do we keep talking about these little things and so painstakingly steer away from talk of feelings and dreams and family and past relationships? It's unnatural. It's tiresome. It's making us drift apart just as soon as we as we get an inch too close for comfort.
But still the same, I like you. There's a mystery about you that I could not explain. Your ideas fascinate me. Your kindness and your vision impress me. I enjoy the way you make me laugh, love the way you make me think. I very rarely meet a man who knows the books I read, sings the songs I sing, and dreams of the adventures I long to do. But maybe they're all in my head. maybe you're just being you. Perhaps the reason why I like you is because I don't know you enough. Or I don't know you at all (though I would like to believe that that is not true, maybe I do know you a bit). Whether you are real or imagined, I do know that I really enjoy every moment I have with you. I think you are amazing. I think you are magical.
These feelings I indulge in now should have been extinct a decade ago. I don't recall feeling this way since college. And now these teenage feelings haunt me again, and they're more ferocious and intense than ever. Crushes are supposed to be for teens, not for middle-aged cardiologists. I'm 34 but I get these butterflies in my stomach whenever our eyes meet. My little heart leaps whenever you smile. There's a shiver in my spine when the back of your hand lightly touches my arm. My knees turn into jelly whenever you hold my hand. Haven't you noticed that whenever we're together, there's a silly smile plastered on my face? You make me sing - in the car, while walking, while drinking beer. Geeesh, you even made me dance once, and I never dance. Since i met you, this old woman is a little girl all over again, a silly, lovestruck, little girl crazy over her first crush. Thank you for that.
I'm not expecting anything. I don't expect that you'll like me back. Let's just stay how we are. Let's just talk and laugh, and sing and dance, and walk and travel. We need not talk about the serious stuff. We can just talk about the usual things - politics, the city, mountains, Nepal, and that neighbor you have. You need not be with me whenever I ask you for your company (which is practically all the time, at least in my head, I just don't tell you about it). Let's just take it slow, so slow, as slow as you would want it to be.
But I really like you. I really do. And if you get to read this, please, just give me a sign that you've read this and I'll finally tell you about it.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Fern
Another old crush got married a few days ago. Well, it wasn't really a big deal. But when you're 34 and single, and your options are getting narrower and narrower, supposedly trivial events like this create a small dent on your otherwise flawless veneer of confidence. It's like a death of someone your age, when you are suddenly reminded of the brevity of your existence and you get to question your own life and your achievements and the purpose of your daily grind. Yeah, I'm diverging from a crush getting married to existentialist angst. That's how twisted I am right now. Twisted and crazy and confused and feeling like a fifteen year old. I think I'm having a brief reactive psychosis triggered by the marriage of an old crush. All because I've always thought he was fern. Fern? Fern has no stamen or pistil. Fern has spores. In layman's terms, fern is asexual. My asexual former crush is now married. And I'm shocked. I'm aghast. I'm crying. Boohoo. He wasn't a fern after all.
So my fern wasn't a fern. He just was a fern when he was with me. Well, he wasn't really with me, technically, which disqualifies me from being a total fern-magnet. But yeah, you know what I mean. He was a good fern, by the way.
So my fern wasn't a fern. He just was a fern when he was with me. Well, he wasn't really with me, technically, which disqualifies me from being a total fern-magnet. But yeah, you know what I mean. He was a good fern, by the way.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Breakfast Club With Me, Myself, and I
My 34th birthday came and went. I expected to become wiser overnight, with my hair all turning gray, wrinkles on my face, with a halo around my head. I didn't. Instead, I'm just an almost-old middle aged woman trying hard to keep sane.
Today is my third day trying to get back to my lifestyle a year ago - that of a regularly-jogging fat lady who found it hard to finish a day without sweating it out. My busy work, the recent rains and cold early morning weather, and yes, I'll stop making excuses, my horrible and protracted attack of idleness have stopped me from making my daily rounds along the city park. The result: 4 kgs of fat gained. Eeeewww!
Since Friday, I've been joining this city's fitness-crazy old ladies in their sessions of Zumba in malls. My friend Ronan found that ridiculous. He hates watching fat people dance while panting like dogs and sweating buckets of what he felt like oil. But his mockery notwithstanding, I decided to join Zumba in the mall and be gawked at by those skinny people in the crowd. And today, I tried to resume jogging. Two miles and I was already getting angina. My knees hurt. And I'm still fat.
And so I'm back in my favorite breakfast place. Until a few months ago, this has been my Sunday morning routine. After a jog and a some minutes of Zumba, I usually hole up in this cozy little diner and have a treat of fried egg and whatever meat there is. The past few months, however, I've enjoyed the most unexpected of surprises: company.
You see I'm not used to getting company. I've been so used to having my meals alone. And I've stopped feeling miserable about it. Being alone in a diner, reading a book, or just staring into space has always made me feel superior over the other Homo sapiens who cannot endure being alone. It's like my superpower, my mega asset, the ace in my cards. And so when company came, I realized how pathetic all my previous delusions about my superiority were. Quoting Murakami, "Nobody wants to be alone. I just hate to be disappointed." Yes, I just hated being disappointed. And oh boy, like all these other ordinary Homo sapiens, I don't want to be alone!!!
For many weekends, I had company I enjoyed. I started missing my morning jogs because I felt I hated being alone and I no longer felt that loneliness is equated with being superior and powerful. I wasn't having breakfast alone and I was happier!
But the trouble with company is that you can't keep them with you forever. People have lives to lead. I don't own anyone. And whether I like it or not, I'm the queen of solitary meals and tables-for-one.
So I'm back to square one. I'm the girl who reads, the girl who runs, the girl who travels, the girl who writes. The girl who does everything alone. And yes, whether you like it or not, that makes me a superior Homo sapien. Enough said.
(Written in Taps and Mix, GenSan City. In a fit of self-pity, hahaha. Solitude makes writers in fat middle-aged ladies, I therefore conclude.)
Today is my third day trying to get back to my lifestyle a year ago - that of a regularly-jogging fat lady who found it hard to finish a day without sweating it out. My busy work, the recent rains and cold early morning weather, and yes, I'll stop making excuses, my horrible and protracted attack of idleness have stopped me from making my daily rounds along the city park. The result: 4 kgs of fat gained. Eeeewww!
Since Friday, I've been joining this city's fitness-crazy old ladies in their sessions of Zumba in malls. My friend Ronan found that ridiculous. He hates watching fat people dance while panting like dogs and sweating buckets of what he felt like oil. But his mockery notwithstanding, I decided to join Zumba in the mall and be gawked at by those skinny people in the crowd. And today, I tried to resume jogging. Two miles and I was already getting angina. My knees hurt. And I'm still fat.
And so I'm back in my favorite breakfast place. Until a few months ago, this has been my Sunday morning routine. After a jog and a some minutes of Zumba, I usually hole up in this cozy little diner and have a treat of fried egg and whatever meat there is. The past few months, however, I've enjoyed the most unexpected of surprises: company.
You see I'm not used to getting company. I've been so used to having my meals alone. And I've stopped feeling miserable about it. Being alone in a diner, reading a book, or just staring into space has always made me feel superior over the other Homo sapiens who cannot endure being alone. It's like my superpower, my mega asset, the ace in my cards. And so when company came, I realized how pathetic all my previous delusions about my superiority were. Quoting Murakami, "Nobody wants to be alone. I just hate to be disappointed." Yes, I just hated being disappointed. And oh boy, like all these other ordinary Homo sapiens, I don't want to be alone!!!
For many weekends, I had company I enjoyed. I started missing my morning jogs because I felt I hated being alone and I no longer felt that loneliness is equated with being superior and powerful. I wasn't having breakfast alone and I was happier!
But the trouble with company is that you can't keep them with you forever. People have lives to lead. I don't own anyone. And whether I like it or not, I'm the queen of solitary meals and tables-for-one.
So I'm back to square one. I'm the girl who reads, the girl who runs, the girl who travels, the girl who writes. The girl who does everything alone. And yes, whether you like it or not, that makes me a superior Homo sapien. Enough said.
(Written in Taps and Mix, GenSan City. In a fit of self-pity, hahaha. Solitude makes writers in fat middle-aged ladies, I therefore conclude.)
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