Miracles Shmiracles

While in the middle of laughing to one of my favorite sitcoms, I receive a text message from my Broda; otherwise known as a brother figure who's taught me a thing or two about men like the Grand Master… *insert Star Wars theme song* … YODA!

(Not that Yoda teaches about men, but you get my point.)

And "Taught me, He has!" (But that's not the point.)

So in beeped his clean-cut question: “Do you believe in miracles?”

*Star Wars theme song CD scratches to a halt*

I kept pressing the down button to see if it was a forwarded joke, but scrolling up the SMS galaxy were just those words. Nothing else followed. As if reading my mind, he texted shortly after to acknowledge how weird and random the question was, and to inform me that he also really needed my opinion.

Not meaning to harsh his mellow, I casually answered with a “Not really, why?”

Our conversation ended there. At least for blog’s sake, it did.

In the face of cynicism, it was hard to believe miracles happened on a day-to-day basis. ‘Cause if it did, Heath Ledger would still be alive and asking me to marry him right now! Miracles are violations to the law of nature. Sometimes, they are God-willed contraventions through experiences like transubstantiation and all that jazz. (And yes… I kinda’ had to google that.)

I thanked Webster for informing me that a miracle is “2. an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment.” Throwing the possibility of Heath Ledger's resurrection out the window, I began to mentally list down all the so-called "miracles" in my life:

1. December 2006 - A cab driver returned my wallet, with the help of my address printed on the back of my I.D. Since I was holding public funds for a college group project, I almost fainted when I thought I had lost it. (Try living in Manila and you’ll know how impossible this should have been!)

2. March 2009 - My father survived a cerebral stroke. I was told only 15% of stroke patients made it to see another sun rise. I almost fainted after crying buckets of tears.

3. September 2009 - Jeff "Phi" Nguyen from the Jabbawockeez blew me a kiss during their first Live concert in Manila. This IS a miracle, Gaddammit! (Your honor, to testify on such incident, I invite Ms. Billie Princesa to the witness stand!)

Yes, this was me before I almost fainted.

Simultaneously, I started thinking of all the wonderful things that began to unfold and narrate themselves to me: Surviving the most painful and tormenting break-up with a man I loved for four years… Getting into law school… Saying the words “I love you” to my father for the very first time… Traveling to Chile to see my very first llama… (Shut up!)… Nailing Beyoncé’s “Listen” without my voice cracking during another drunken karaoke night… Forgiving a friend who had gravely wronged me…

With this in mind, the great things started becoming simpler things. I appreciated the fact that I had God, family, and friends... when others didn’t. I appreciated the fact that I still had my ability to think, to feel, and to love. (Sorry, getting preachy here.)

Then it hit me. I still had a heartbeat!

Shit!

The heart pulse monitor beeps, and my electrocardiogram readings have glowing green mountains! A car could’ve slammed into me today, and I could’ve been the freak accident on tomorrow's headlines. But noooo! I was still thinking, feeling and breathing. I am given the chance every single day to accomplish my dreams, atone for my slip-ups, and eat a weed brownie! BOO-YAH! (Okay, kidding about the last one… … Or not.)

Sure, it may sound like something we’ve all heard before, but truly understanding the overlooked gravity of still living, I understood that once my green beeping line goes flat, my greatest miracle will cease to exist… Now I don't know about them emos, but I don't mind prancing about seven feet above the ground. I'd rather struggle through my everyday problems, than be asleep for good.

Think about it.

Miracles happen everyday, and it does not need to be as grand as winning a million dollars overnight or seeing someone levitate. (Though either would still be like… super awesome.)

“To me, every hour of the day and night

is an unspeakable perfect miracle.”

- Walt Whitman

(And who knows, Broda—you just might be able to telekinetically move objects or deflect force lightning one of these days; but for now, just blend in with the rest of the world, psychoanalyze the shit out of people like you normally would and help them out—one heart at a time. Weeeeee!)

Can't You Just Slut Up?

It’s that one thing every single girl must have tucked somewhere in her closet. That very private thing — the slight contact of which to the skin would send tingling sensations of sensual and erotic ecstasy...

Lingerie.

Not a vibrator, idiot! Those come in second!

I remember the first time I bought myself real lingerie.

It was a Friday afternoon, and I had just finished working on my coverage as a medical representative. I agreed to meet up with a college friend at the Shangrila Edsa mall, which was just on the way home from Makati City. From meeting up over coffee to strolling around aimlessly, my friend and I spoke about 'men and relationships'. (Like single women have anything else to talk about, really.) Oh! And Channing Tatum’s killer-abs. (Wait, that still falls under 'men'.)

So we found ourselves in a decent clothing store, and it was after placing a shimmery black top back on the rack when I saw it inviting me towards the corner: Sexy intimate apparel.

Boom-chika-bow-wow!

Carefully clipped to a plastic hanger was a dark, uber-flirtatious brassiere with pink lace trimmings. This was complimented by a matching, lacy thong that hung just behind it. I picked it up and gazed at it; admiring the details, then thinking all of a sudden—

“MY GOD! What’s that gunna’ cover down there?!” my friend’s voice from behind me read my mind.

I was immensely amused with her telepathic skills. “Might as well just go bare, right?”

She took the underwear set from my hands and held the scanty garments in front of my body, as if to picture how I’d look in them. “This’ll look good on you. You should get this!”

I feigned pleasant surprise, “Hey mom! Look at me! I’m slutting it up!” And like every normal girl making a big fuzz about her weight, I added "Plus, I gained a few pounds! What size is that anyway? Size 5'3"-and-anorexic?"

“Come on. Just ‘cause you’re single doesn’t mean you can’t own one!” She fished the rack for a slightly bigger size then started waving it around my face, half-laughing. “Buy it! I dare you!”

A good dose of immature giggling and elbowing later, my 5'6"-and-normal-eating-self finally agreed to buy it. But only because it was on sale.

I seriously felt my cheeks flush the moment I took three solid steps towards the counter with the undergarments in my hand. Then my hyper mind started talking: Act cool... Oh no. That lady at the corner holding the yellow shirt is looking at you. And she’s secretly laughing at you. She knows you're not used to buying shit like this. Oh God, this is so embarrassing!

Okay, there's a lady clerk at the counter! Good! A fellow female. Handing this over to her won’t be so bad. She's probably tried buying her own pair before.

Shit! Someone’s still paying. Must wait till the coast is clear!

I followed my friend around first with the lingerie tucked under my arm, stealing glances of the counter from time to time. I noticed people were buying REAL clothing: jeans, shirts and... ...jeans.

Five minutes later, the coast was finally clear. I half-ran to the counter, my eyes fixed on the cashier lady who was now stapling several receipts together. Still clutching the undergarments tightly by my side, I faked a smile.

And then the craziest shit happened.

(Picture this in slow motion). Smiling back at me, the lady moved to the side and motioned for a male attendant to join her at the counter. A cute male attendant! (Approximately 5’10”, athletic, with perfectly coiffed hair, and a ridiculously cute smile.)

Fuuuuuuuck!

I shot my friend a panicked look. She just laughed at me from the distance like a really good friend. Jesus, I felt like a 14-year-old virginal boy trying to buy a condom at some convenience store.

Slowly meeting the gaze of the cute male attendant, I bashfully placed the lingerie in front of him.

It was awkward.

I heard him clear his throat before unclipping the bra and thong from their respective hangers. He didn’t know whether to fold them or not. Shit. He’s thinking I’m buying this for myself. And I’m in my business attire now! He knows my two ass cheeks will be sandwiching a string behind my slacks starting today!

He was now looking for a paper bag. He switched from small to an extra small. Jaysus! Hurry up!

I paid him, not making eye contact. Then I saw him smiling. Wait – No! He was smirking! He thinks it's funny! 'Cause maybe I’m the first customer this year to buy from their slutfits. Oh my God! NO WONDER IT'S ON SALE! NO ONE BUYS THIS SHIT!

He held the paper bag out to me. I snatched it, snatched my really good friend, and ran off to the nearest escalator.

Juvenile, I know.

But even 20-year olds grow up; and of course, I got used to wearing it. (TMI, I know. Sorry.) My mom got used to seeing it when I explained white-lied it was a birthday gift. (Asian moms.) Then I started liking it – really liking it. I enjoyed thinking: "Oh he's going to love this!" ...and... "God forbid if anything bad happens to me tonight, paramedics will at least have something nice to look at when they cut my shirt open!" among... well, other... thoughts...

Lingeries are nice. They give you a great sense of empowerment. You can be wearing bleach-stained house clothes with mud under your fingernails, yet still feel sexy when you have these babies strapped on you. It does not take a Victoria's Secret model to enjoy the experience of slutting it up with some lace and garter. Every single woman out there should have the opportunity to feel confident and sexy about their bodies; and these just might help.

So the lesson in this story? Try not to approach a cashier lady when you see she’s busy stapling something.

And too bad this isn't really my face. Haha!

Dear Lost & Confused Me,

“Thank u so much, elly! Ur the best talaga…swear!hehehe! :)”

I stared at the Arial letters glowing from my cellphone with this weird feeling. Well… mixed, to be more exact.

I was happy to have helped another damsel of a friend with her relationship concerns. For weeks I empathized with her (“Fuck yeah! Let’s get wasted!”), listened to the detailed accounts of her story (“Wait! I’m crossing the street! …Hello? Okay, go on.”), and encouraged her to do what she thought was right. (“Just so you know, I know someone who knows someone who's cousin knows a hit-man.”) I was also honest about giving advice from that unbiased, third-person point of view (“Seriously, he’s an asshole! And you know it!”) and constantly assured her I was just a few digits away if she needed anything. (“Yes, you woke me up! So start talking!”)

She found her way through eventually, and got around to taking the first step in the moving on from heartbreak process. Like a single mother ready with her camcorder at some piano recital, I was very proud of my friend.

And now here I was – lying in bed and staring up at the thankful text message she had just sent me.

(** Buzzkill! This is the part where I get weirdly serious...)

Paired with feeling happy for my friend was that little side of me that somewhat felt empty. And I knew it was because I, too, wanted so badly to benefit from my own words and advices.

It didn’t take much for me to realize how helpless I always seemed to be when I went through dating boo-boos and pangs of heartache. Here I was thinking: I was always ready to help people out, but why couldn’t I be that same person to myself? It was so easy when my friends needed me to play Oprah; but when it came to me facing my own predicaments, I shut down. Countless were the times I found myself not knowing what to do with the simplest of problems made answerable with the most “duh” of solutions.

Despite not knowing why I was disabled like this, I was certain about not being the only person who sucked at taking her own advice. I guess that’s why even the most independent "I-got-this-I-always-do!" people still need other people to hear them out. Because sometimes, hearing a voice other than the one coming from the back of your head is better. It’s that extra push to do or not to do something. It’s that validation of your thoughts. And sometimes, it’s that smack on the head you need to bring you back to reality. ("Sweetie, he's just not that into you. Now, slowly... step away from the phone.")

Shifting my position in bed, I replied to my friend’s message with a “No problem! :)”. Then after seeing it register under the Sent folder, I laughed.

Because my message was too damn ironic.

It Only Took Him a Day

We were already the last two people left drinking in the resto-bar when my male friend tells me about getting over his long-time girlfriend in a day.

I repeat: In a day.

Ignoring the “WTF”-look plastered on my face, he continues going on about how ready he is to enter into another relationship because he isn’t afraid of getting hurt again.

(Ladies and Gentlemen! I now officially change my answer to the common survey question, “What super power would you like to possess?” It’s always been the automatic “I want to fly!” response. But after speaking with this amazing freak of nature, and admiring his superhuman-like ability to get over heart-break that fast; I was all ears and ready to learn like an eager Padawan!)

“I think most people, instead of focusing on moving on, focus more on re-living the memories… and staying in the past,” he casually says before taking a drag off his cigarette. The confidence in his voice cloaking years worth of experience got me hooked in an instant.

“But wait, you have to go through that process!” I protested.

I have always thought that experiencing heart-break was the most painful thing in the world. (And that’s not just because I’m a hopeless romantic.) I also strongly believe that one cannot skip the grieving stage, the in-denial stage...and jump straight to parading around the hook-up market with floating hearts and promising cupids.

What my friend meant though, was not brooding too much on the past and acknowledging how everything will eventually be alright. In other words, shutting the heart up and accepting in his mind that whatever happened was for a reason. Simple as that. No But’s. No If’s. No rocket science. No Mandarin translations.

Metaphorically, you can’t keep looking at the rear-view mirror while driving. The focus should be on the windshield – wiper stains, splattered bugs and all.

But in a day?!
My skeptical mind still won’t shut up.
Is this a Men are from Mars thing?

Is moving on simply a matter of the mind’s strength?

I mean, I admit to brooding over my failed relationships -- the countless Kleenex boxes, the replays of “One More Chance”, the unpublished emo blogs, the hard partying… (and crying in the bathroom stall after getting seriously smashed), the torture of playing love songs over and over again, the re-reading of lovey-dovey text messages, the staring at old pictures, and last but not least, (the one 90% of girls I know have been guilty of) – the waiting for that one text message from that unknown number you know is his, which you’ve deleted from your phone-book to keep yourself from calling or texting him, only to realize you have it memorized anyway. (Haha!) So I’m a chick, and we estrogen-filled creatures thrive on all that futile, pathetic drama…

I kept this to myself of course, in fear that my friend from across the table would curl his upper lip at me in disgust.

“So what was the shortest time it took for you to get over an ex?” he quickly interrupted my thoughts.

I paused for a while. “Shortest? Um… three—no, wait! Two months.”

He looked at me steadily and cracked a small grin. “Wow. That is long…”

I guess I will never arrive at an absolute answer to my question. It must be qualified to tailor-fit the experiences of different people and must be applied on a case-to-case basis. I, personally, found it helpful to go through the “slow but sure” process of drowning myself in my tears, denying how single I’ve become overnight; only to later find peace in accepting how I shouldn’t put all the blame on myself or how I can get comfortable with calling him an ass.

Not all people have the same emotional strengths. Some may find it better to let all the baggage and pain beat them up in a day, only to promise themselves they’ll be back up on the horse by the next day.

That being said, I clinked glasses with my friend; secretly wishing a day was all it could take for me too.

Just My Imagination

It is another sleepless Saturday evening, and the monotonous ticking of the clock didn’t need to remind me of this. Tonight’s choice of music was that of Nat King Cole’s greatest hits. The last song on the play-list began to play; and the familiar tune made the corners of my lips curl in delight. There in my room sat a young dreamer, yet an oldie at heart.

I closed my eyes as his hauntingly beautiful voice sent me off to a completely different dimension…

“The very thought of you,
And I forget to do…
The little ordinary things,
That everyone ought to do…

I’m living in a kind of daydream,
I’m happy as a king.
And foolish though it may seem,
To me that’s everything…”

My almost-always active imagination leads me to sitting at the corner of a downtown bar with a cocktail glass in hand, way back in the year 1947. I smile at my vintage taste. My eyes fix on a handsome, young couple making their way from the jukebox to the middle of the empty dance floor.

The man is suited in a crisp navy uniform; his flat cap left resting on the bar beside two consumed drinks. His stance is carried by the natural commanding presence of a naval officer. The woman beside him beams in her classic and timeless beauty—moving in her dress with confident yet trusting elegance; the swaying locks of her dark hair framing her face perfectly.

Holding her hand, he guides her to the center of the floor and pulls her towards him with the flick of his wrist. A comfortable silence falls between the both of them as they come face-to-face.

They are a pair. And one does not need to take a second look to know that they are completely, undoubtedly, and utterly… in-love.

He leads her steps with such gentle yet supporting strength as they began to dance around the tiled floor. I watch meticulously from the distance as he handles her with gentle might—as if afraid to break her.

“The mere idea of you,
The longing here for you…
You’ll never know how slow the moments go,
Till I’m near to you…

I see your face in every flower,
Your eyes and stars above.
It’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you…
My love…”

I light my first cigarette and look around the place. The waitress flips the sign from “Open” to “Closed” by the entrance. Door chimes sound at the exit of the few remaining customers; leaving me as the lone spectator to the happenings around me.

Fixing my attention back to the couple, I find them lost in each other’s eyes. I surprise myself with the inability to gag at the scene before me. I take another drag off my cigarette.

A lighthearted chuckle slips from the lady’s red lips as the man spins her around and dips her. It was so playful, so sweet, yet so innocent at the same time. Upon recovery, both her hands immediately find themselves around his shoulders, and they are back to looking into each other’s eyes as if nothing else seemed more important than being there with each other at that very moment. Placing his mouth closer to her cheek, he begins to sing the rest of the song softly into her ears…

“The mere idea of you,
The longing here for you…
You’ll never know how slow the moments go,
Till I’m near to you…

I see your face in every flower,
Your eyes and stars above.
It’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you…
My love…”

And with the fading sound of the string orchestra ending the song, the handsome couple began to slowly disappear before me. It was the perfect finality—an image of them lost in their love and euphoria as they both vanished into the darkness.

I open my eyes and find myself back in my dark room. The music that has left me is now replaced with the soft buzzing of the air-conditioner. The bar’s tiled dance floor is now the hardwood flooring beneath my feet. I am partly coated by the yellow light streaming steadily from the lamp positioned above my bed.

There it was, staring back at me.

I tried to ignore it. But once again tonight, just like on every other night -- it didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

It was the cold, harsh, reality that I could not fake happiness in choosing to be alone. The inescapable fear stared back at me when my imagination stopped playing along to the hidden wants of my heart. They had been carefully tucked away to protect me, and it was in playing the music and feeling the lyrics that I had inadvertently discovered my need to be held… to be wanted… to be needed… to be loved...

It was with the acceptance that I had no one to dance with that I forced myself to sleep.

In Singing my First Year Blues

“I am such a failure!”

It was as if those words were put on repeat at the back of my mind yesterday. Not only was yesterday the last day of my first year as a law student, but yesterday was also the day the secretary of the Dean told me I failed in my Obligations and Contracts class with a seemingly apathetic shake of the head, “I’m sorry…”

I will not say her statement surprised me, for my almost-innate defense mechanism had me expecting the worst in all situations. Though I must admit, I did expect a little. I was in feeble hopes my efforts would be recognized after all those attempts to recite (revalida style) better and bounce back from the preliminary examination. After all, Dean Aligada couldn’t be that bad, right? I mean, though he was only known for arbitrarily passing 3 students at a time in all his classes, the demigod seriously couldn’t be that bad.

Wow.

How wrong was I?

The possibility of getting debarred is probably the biggest fear of any law student, next to not passing the bar examination after graduation. To me, it was that and failing to meet the expectations everyone had on me – my parents, my relatives and my friends.

And hearing “Aww… Sayang naman…” (“Aww… Such a waste…”) from my mother did not help. To me, that struck harder than the secretary telling me I failed my 5-unit subject. Mom had other words of encouragement but for some reason, her previous statement filtered them. I love her to death and still think I have the best mom in the entire world; but could she not have told me she was proud of me for at least trying my best? Then again, she was a frustrated lawyer.

Every single day is a fight and a struggle with the constant and desperate attempt to stretch my worth 256 KB mental capacity of a brain in memorizing statutes, understanding doctrines, looking up (to-sound-smarter)-Latin terminologies, and reading bulks and bulks of cases; topped off with hard-core commuting to fill my already weak lungs with more Manila pollution everyday. Looming over me was an ominously heavy feeling I wasn’t going to meet the expectations people had on me, despite my best efforts to pass that particular class.

So I went out with my law school friends last night, poker-faced and ready to drown out my sorrow with some hard partying. I was in desperate need of diversion from the oppressive loneliness that was beginning to eat me up.

A little more than 10 shots of tequila and 2 bottles of Red Horse later, I was already looming over the washroom garbage can, puking my guts out in all my Catholic school-uniformed-glory. This continued 10 minutes later at the parking lot with my guy friends telling me to “let it out” while rubbing my back. I had never gotten to the point of bad drunk-puking (let alone in front of 5 other people and for academic problems at that! WTF, right?) until last night. And the best thing about puking, I realized, is how you have every excuse to let your tears freely fall.

Funny how it was with those tears and waking up ten hours later to read text messages from concerned friends that I realized the things that mattered more than excelling and breezily passing in life…

(And it’s that damn cliché I keep forgetting.)

It’s in knowing that you are not alone in what you go through, because you still have the people you need to tell you to it’s okay to “let it out” while rubbing you back, albeit seeing (and smelling) you at your worst. It is in knowing that it’s okay to stumble because you have certain people to catch you when others won’t, and it is in knowing that winning can be but a mere shallow fruit of a feat when you don’t have people witnessing and embracing you at your failures first.

So here's an open thank you to those who still believe in me and in themselves...

J-j-j-jaded!

"I am jaded."

Or so I thought.

Till the guy I was dating one Saturday afternoon asked me if I ever had an abortion.

I swear the beer almost shot out of my nose when he asked me that.
*mental scream: Dude! What the fuck?! What type of women have YOU been dating?!*
He was surprised with my bold statement, as I was surprised with his bolder question.

So there I sat, flabbergasted. My face was synonymous to that of a fish caught on a hook. “Okay mister, I’m not that hardcore. Nor will I ever be.”

Mr. Yes-There-Is-Such-Thing-As-A-Stupid-Question laughed at my reaction, placed a hand on my knee and started asking why I thought of myself that way.

I answered with a shrug, and he just gave me the look a father would give his 7-year old daughter for wearing red lipstick and fishnet stockings.

My ears started tuning out his words subconsciously as my thought process shifted from “My drink needs more ice” to the question: “Am I really emotionally worn-out?”

Nothing surprises me anymore. There are too many ironies in life, especially when it comes to love and relationships. Alanis Morissette shiz like “You meet the man of your dreams and he introduces you to his wife” or some ka-ek-ekan like that…

Having come from a series of different relationships, all different in color and all leaving me somewhat scarred in their own ways; I’ve come to realize certain things: Men cheat left and right. Men are after only one thing. Philandering men are macho, while "curious" women are perceived as whores. Be fragile with the male ego or the Playboy subscription number replaces yours. Marriage is “relatively” over by the second year. The cynical list goes on and on; and having tons of male friends while living in an Asian country didn't really help much.

God knows how much I wish I didn’t think this way. Those who have known me for years will understand the shit I’ve been through. Many people will easily point out that I’ve just been dating the wrong men. Pfft! Whatever. All I know is, I can’t help but think the way I do. That light coming from the end of a tunnel's actually a train, people.

So as a defense mechanism, *insert muscle flexing action* I’ve developed the habit of blocking out optimistic thoughts with anticipation for the worst. “He’s cute!” (…and has a psycho-ex’s number on his caller I.D.), “He’s smart! (…and will be an ass when you try to give him directions when you two get lost), “He’s sweet! (...and we both know it’s only going to last till the third month.)

I always made room for doubt, even when the moment spent with another person seemed almost perfect. (Yes, there are some awesome guys who manage to slip under the radar!) Generally, I could be in the middle of getting swept off my feet – (a.k.a. witty repartee with a funny guy sitting across from me) – and I would be thinking of every single stupid reason why it wouldn’t work out between us. (*gasp* He doesn’t own a pink shirt?!)

Yes. It sucks.
I suck.
I will be modest enough to admit that.

But until I find a compelling reason to make me believe otherwise, I’ll keep my shades on and laugh along with life’s ironies...