Highlight of the weekend: I went to heaven, I mean the Manila International Book Fair, yesterday.
Listening to: “Now We Are Free” – Lisa Gerrard live at Milan (I’ve loved her music for more than 10 years. It speaks to the soul and takes you somewhere else entirely. Whenever I hear this song I am standing on an open field, just a few steps from the beach, the sun is shining; the wind ruffles my hair and I wave my arms and embrace the infinite heavens. I hear the cry of a seagull close by. The waters are a clear emerald from where I stand. It is all so peaceful. I wish I could stay here).
I woke up this morning with an urge to finish the last piece of chocolate cake sitting on the fridge downstairs. That or some spaghetti with cheese.
On January 2012, I’ll be 29 years old (oh wow, really?) and while my life is not so bad (I have a job w/ a somewhat lucrative salary- in spite of what I might think about it. Tons of friends who really care about me), sometimes a realization just hits me hard (like the Deathstar beam vaporizing Alderaan in one quick *zap* *boom*), how in the blerg did this happen?? I’ve never particularly “planned” my life when I was younger. But I have an idea on how a “normal” life should go. I’m sure there are quirks along the way, but still it should have certain recognizable highlights. Such as:
>”That time when you danced and socialized happily during Prom” -
To me it’s “that time I considered going to the catering area and chatting up the staff so they would give me second helpings of the entire menu”. Prom was quite an embarassing and somewhat bewildering time for me. And I never attended the second one (during my senior year). My dress as I recall was lousy, more suited to one of those “El Shaddai” events on TV than a Junior-Senior Prom. I saw my female classmates arriving one by one wearing one gorgeous dress after another. The questions in my mind then were, “How did they know what to wear?” “Was there something I missed?” “Were they part of some conspiracy?” And I never really saw the point anyway. All I could think of was “How long until this is over?” and “Can I go home now?” I think I might have had one dance. And then I spent the night hanging around the fringes (thinking of escape methods should a fire occur). I’m quite sure my friends had a better assessment of the event than I did. Some people might say it’s just the a prom, but to me it’s an indication of how I managed to enter womanhood, not with grace but with a sputter like a clogged exhaust pipe. I think the pipe has been clogged ever since.
>”That time when you should understand the complicated dance of consorting with the opposite sex and the art of looking good.”
Never really understood this one. The whole “flowers-and-chocolate-flirting-sweep-you-off-your-feet” ritual. My last boyfriend (whom I will now refer to as “Dennis” after Liz Lemon’s erstwhile BF) and I didn’t exactly follow that routine. Though we had loads of conversations/debates about geekery (movies, videogames, the whole nerdy nine yards). And truth be told, I am not quite sure what our current status is at the moment, but I guess the whole thing is over more or less, given the fact that I haven’t seen him since the Cretaceous Period. I’m of the Sex and the City generation and somehow I couldn’t relate to the four main characters. I might be closer to Carrie since I am an aspiring writer, but I don’t have a closet full of designer clothes, with the designer bags and shoes to go with each of them, and don’t spend the weekends sipping champagne in the swankiest locations possible. I also do not date the city’s most eligible bachelors every other weekend (well maybe not exactly,but you know what I mean).
My closet space looks like it hasn’t been organized since the moon landing. It has been invaded by books mostly. And no designer clothes anywhere. The most expensive piece of clothing I own is a sort of dress-blouse from TopShop (sale at 999 PHP) and a sweater from Kamiseta (1,300 PHP), both of which I bought in a very rare fit of insanity. Weekends are usually spent with friends or in front of the TV/laptop (while eating all manner of artery-hardening foods, ahaha!) or mostly curled up reading a book or drawing. I just remembered, I didn’t wash some of my not-so-dirty laundry again this weekend, which is typical. Back to the matter at hand, I think looking good (both for the sake of looking good and attracting the members of the opposite sex like flies to rotting meat, wait – did I just say that?) is hard work. It requires meticulous planning. Which outfit goes with what, what colors go with this and that and so on. After many years, I finally figured out that it’s something I’m not really interested in. I don’t dress like a hobo though (except maybe at home), but I’m not exactly “glamour girl” either. I’d rather spend my energies in what I deem to be more worthwhile pursuits.
And again, on the “subtle” art of flirting, I’m flying blind. It’s not that I can’t converse, it’s just that I don’t really know what the blerg am I suppose to say so that the conversation will lead to wherever it’s supposed to go, at least according to most chick flicks I occasionally watch. Probably not something like “Into the garbage chute flyboy!”, lest it’d be misconstrued or “I am really interested in what you have to say, you scruffy-looking nerf-herder.” It sounds like I’m picking a fight or something.
