A Year-End Massage

“Some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity...”

                            -- Gilda Radner

Another year is nearly at an end, swiftly flying by, with no Mr. Darcy in sight. But I am neither sad, lonely, nor depressed. It was a full year, with lots of surprises and big decisions made.

When I think about the year that was, I think about family and friends... and how we've gone through so much and came out all the better for them. I think about work and the people I deal with every single day... and how we've effected change and continue to strive for more without losing our sense of humor. I think about my flat and the many hours I've spent hibernating and recuperating from the battering I get from everyday life. I think about the world... and worry about peace and climate change and stupid politicians with no real agenda except stupid coup attempts in hotels. I think about Mr. Darcy, the man who is, but one I can't seem to find... and I wonder if he truly is out there... or if he's decidedly just meant for my books and dreams.

I wonder about my story. I wonder if, at the end of my own life story, people would say they enjoyed being a part of it or wish they were edited out. I wonder where and when my story started, if it has even started, and where it is heading. I wonder about the little subplots that make the whole. I wonder about the genre, whether it would be filed as a mystery/thriller or a general fiction or a classic or a romantic novel or a movie tie-in or a science fiction/fantasy or even a general reference. Or will it have a category all its own?

Then, I think about what I already know. It's amazing how much I still don't know even though I know that I already do know a lot.

I realize that my life is mostly made up of ad lib moments. A lot like a stand-up comedy sketch. It's actually fun. I'm not the type who would have a detailed ten-year plan for my life. That would be too anal-retentive for me. I mean, I do have a general direction and an end-goal that my internal compass seems to be pursuing. I am not a hitchhiker in my own life. I'm more like the weekend driver, cruising down life's highways with the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, and driving music blaring out my life's soundtrack... Destination: not quite known. Hey, it's all about the journey, right?

In any case, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman with enough wit, common sense, and her own income is in need of a... good massage. I'm pretty sure that anyone with wit will have enough friends and good conversation to enjoy as she goes through life. And anyone with common sense would generally always know what it takes to enjoy work and accomplish other mundane tasks needed for everyday survival. And any woman with her own income should have enough power over her life to make decisions relevant to her pursuit of happiness. In other words, anyone worth her salt must have a life of her choosing, which would also mean that she will encounter enough stressful moments for her to be in need of a regular massage.

I believe am that she. And I do need that massage. So, as this random rambling comes to a close... Could Mr. Darcy please step up and give me a good, long, satisfying one? ;)

Shopping Schlopping

I hate shopping. In fact, my idea of shopping is knowing exactly what I need, where to get it, then going in and out of the shop in fifteen minutes flat. I am a man's ideal shopper. (Ask my brother. He was amazed and very happy when I brought him along on one of my shopping trips. Make that “trip” because we only went to one shop and we were done in fifteen minutes. He still refuses to shop with my mom and sister. Typical female shopaholic proclivities. It skipped me.) I can never make a career out of this activity. The only kind of shopping I'm interested in is for books.

Just an aside...Why did they use the term “window shopping” for that particular activity where you aimlessly wander around a shopping complex pretending to be interested in items you want but may not afford to buy at that precise moment? Sure, you look in through the windows at the items on display, but you aren't buying the windows... Har-har. Okay, shutting up on this subject.

Anyway, I also hate malls. There are too many people walking too damn slow and making sudden stops reminiscent of jeepneys along the road.

I hate department stores where there are just too many selections of one item. It's overwhelming to stare across the floor, particularly by the women's shoes section, and figure out where and how you will find those dratted pair of brown shoes you need.

Unfortunately, my strong dislike of shopping has affected my Christmas list. I haven't bought any gift for any single person yet. There are just too many people in the malls. And no one... and I mean no one, not even wild horses can drag me to Divisoria, Christmas season or not. I've paid my dues and have come out feeling physically and mentally violated... my personal space invaded violently by jostlers with no sense of personal hygiene. No more. Enough.

So, I will do as I normally would on any ordinary day when I need to go shopping... either I make my sister do it for me or I wait till the last minute in hopes that everyone's finished with their shopping and will no longer be clogging the lanes in the mall. Hopefully, there are still items worth buying.

May I just say that I do like giving well-thought of gifts to people close to me. I am not a scrooge. If I could afford to give them their hearts' desires, why not? Key words here are “if I could afford,” just in case you missed that part.

Basically, what I'm saying here is that I haven't done my Christmas shopping and that I hate shopping of any kind. And if you've read my previous entry, you will know that I now have no more money. Putting these facts together, you will most likely come to the correct conclusion... that I have no Christmas tree.

Stress Therapy

I am welcoming myself back to my own blog. Huzzah!

Now that we've dispensed with that...

I just have to say that it's been a crazy three months at work. Having to deal with around fifty individuals --- all of whom I consider beyond the range of normal --- every single day has driven me to run (more like sprint, in fact) back into the arms of my most faithful man named Jack Daniels. There were days when I felt like being run through a wringer and days when I felt like I was running a day care. On most days, my role resembled more of a zoo keeper. I survived by the skin of my teeth and with a whole lot of sense of humor. Thank heavens for partners who are actually more evil than I am despite assertions to the contrary!

Despite all the rantings and the mumblings, I honestly like my work. It's gratifying. Besides, I enjoy the company of the people I work closely with. Of course, we still need HR to hire some serious eye candy (and I mean SERIOUS eye candy like Hugh Jackman or Matthew MacFadyen) to stand beside my workstation and be at my beck and call twenty four-seven, but I'm willing to wait.

I have to admit, though, that the stress has gotten to me enough that I've gone crazy. Yes, I know that some people would actually go so far and say that I've always been crazy, but it really isn't true. I was normal before the stress.

Anyway, because of stress I went shopping. Now, normal people would go shopping for clothes or furniture or even jewelry. They call this retail therapy. Then there's me. I think I belong to a completely different type of retail therapy. I went for a condo unit. So now I am cash poor and about to live a hand-to-mouth existence once again just to make sure I make the payments. What did I get myself into?!

Now I imagine myself scrimping so much that if I actually went out to buy a kilo of meat, I'd make it last a month by boiling it and making a gallon of broth, then drying the meat to turn into jerky. The end of the month will be the only time I can actually feast on the meat. Or I may just completely forgo eating. How sad is that?

I don't regret buying the unit though. It's an investment. I can always sell or (when it's completed) have it rented out... or so I keep telling myself. I'm really too selfish to have someone be the first to use something that I worked so hard to purchase. I'm sure I'll be living there myself. With or without Mr. Darcy.

Impossibilities

“How could a city crammed with so many millions of people remain, for so many of them, precisely one person short?”

                -- Nicholas Weinstock, As Long as She Needs Me

 

We single and unattached persons between the ages of twenty and forty have been given such labels like singletons or walking wounded. It makes me wonder if these tags are meant to be derogatory terms or merely statements of fact.

 

I am single. I am unattached. I am my own person. And yes, I have had relationships that ended badly. (The others ended without bitterness or rancor or very hard feelings. Honest.) So yes, I agree. I am a walking wounded singleton. But it doesn’t mean I am defeated. I am Invictus.

 

Yet. I do agree with the words I read from Nicholas Weinstock’s novel. “How could a city [like this city that I live in] crammed with so many millions [and I literally mean millions] of people remain, for so many of them, precisely one person short?”

 

We’re all walking around in search of that one person to be with for the rest of our lives. Like swans seeking their one and only lifelong mates. But in the melee, one or two… or more… get lost. Some of us end up mismatched, so we try again. Sooner or later we start wondering when we’ll ever get things right… if we ever do. [Suddenly, I am reminded of the Indigo Girls’ song, Galileo, that sings, “How long till my soul gets it right? Will any human being ever reach that kind of light? Call on the resting soul of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight…”

 

In another book, this time by Nicholas Sparks, A Walk to Remember, the heroine, Jamie Sullivan, tells the hero, Landon Carter, that she “prayed for him.” It’s interesting how even that small phrase has more than just one meaning.

 

When we pray for someone, we always think of asking favors in behalf of the person we are praying for. But then, as Jamie points out in a subtle way, her prayer was really quite simple and quite literal. She prayed for Landon. To be hers. It was a simple matter of asking for something you want. It wasn’t so complicated after all. And maybe the simplest prayers could be granted much faster.

 

It reminds me of something I learned when I was very young. This came from a wonderful Jesuit priest who had a wonderful way with words. “The difficult we do at once. The impossible takes a little longer.”

 

So here I am… wondering if I should ask for Mr. Darcy, but at the same time thinking that it will never happen because if God took me too literally, I will never find Mr. Darcy. After all, he is a fictional character from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. But then again, maybe I should still ask for my Mr. Darcy because I’ve asked for difficult things that have been granted in one way or another. This impossible request of having my Mr. Darcy has taken longer than expected, so… I fit the bill of the difficult being done at once while the impossible is taking impossibly longer. Right? Hmmm…

 

I’m still short one person.

Make and Have

There is only one very simple rule of language. Make sense. And there is one important rule in surviving life. Have sense.

 

Following the first rule, I always try to make sure that what I say makes sense to the people that I am saying what I am saying to. [Notice how I cleverly avoided a dangling participle. And yes, it is quite acceptable --- even to Strunk & White --- to end a sentence with a preposition.]

 

Unfortunately, not many people are as conscientious about making sense as other people would like them to be. They seem to take perverse pleasure in speaking without any real point or having no idea how to make their point. It’s quite aggravating, really.

 

Since one of the qualities I look for in my Mr. Darcy is wit, then I can safely assume that he isn’t among those that I have encountered whose language skills leave much to be desired. And that lack is but just the tip of the iceberg. Behind the underwhelming language prowess is the overwhelming realization that there really isn’t much sense behind the words themselves.

 

It isn’t just about making sense. It’s also about having sense. One can easily make sense if one expresses himself clearly and purposefully. And anyone can easily make sense if he puts his mind to it. But to have enough sense to deal with various situations will demand for more of a person’s abilities. Making sense requires one to exercise his tongue. Having sense requires one to exercise his brain.

 

These two should go hand in hand. Sadly, it is not always the case.

 

I find myself with impatient thought bubbles whenever I get stuck in situations where one or both (making and having sense) are missing from the conversation. Thoughts like: “What was it I said that makes you think I give a shit?” or “If I throw you a stick, will you go away?” Unkind and plagiarized, I know. But many times, I just couldn’t help it. I do have one original thought bubble though… “Help! I can feel my brain imploding on itself!”

 

So, to a snob like me, all I really want when dealing with people is to interact with people who make sense whenever possible, which is often, and who almost always have some sense, common or otherwise. Is that too much to ask?

 

Apparently, it is.

Eye Candy

It’s amazing what a good looking face can do to a group (or should I say “a gaggle”?) of women, particularly eye-candy-deprived women.

 

It was quite amusing to watch, really. They were like friendly vultures circling their prey. No real intentions to devour, of course. Just to look their fill. I hope.

 

These women… they could get really inventive when finding an excuse to be in the viewing vicinity of their target. I’ve had to field various reasons, one more ridiculous than the next. It was hilarious! The best kind of amusement I’ve had in a few weeks really. I am heartily thankful for it.

 

Unfortunately, while I do appreciate the tall, dark, and very good looking bloke who made the happy mistake of entering our work premises to seek employment within our erstwhile organization, he is not my Mr. Darcy.

 

I’ll have to sit out this dance a little bit longer, I believe. I don’t mind. I’m sure my Mr. Darcy would make his way through the assembly crush and find me tolerable enough to tempt him to dance a reel. Maybe he might discover that I have fine eyes, too.

 

No matter. Eye candy is always a good distraction. It helps make my day lighter and more interesting. Maybe I should ask our HR Department to include that requirement for applicants…? Oh, wait! Here’s another novel thought! Maybe I can get our HR to find me my Mr. Darcy!

A Dull Life?

As a long train of grain-bearing ants frequently comes and goes,

     Bearing the usual food in their mouths,

Or as bees, having reached the woodlands or the fragrant pasture,

     Fly through the flowers and above the thyme,

So rush the most elegant women to the crowded shows:

     Often has the throng impeded my judgment.

They come to see, and they come to be seen:

     That place is the ruin of chaste decency.

-        Ovid, The Art of Love, lines 93-100

 

I had dinner last weekend with my best friends at this wonderfully posh and classy place. For appetizers, we had Portobello mushrooms ravioli and a salad of fresh vegetables and beef carpaccio. While they went for fish, I went for the duck. All were beautifully plated. Even the complimentary bread basket was marvelous. (It was my first taste of tomato-basil bread. Yum!) And how can I ever forget the two bottles of chilled champagne (Veuve Cliquot)? They were divine!

 

The ambiance was muted elegance --- candles and soft music. Conversation among the well-dressed patrons was discreet and polite. It was like having Breakfast at Tiffany’s except that it’s at night. We even had the whole little black dress with diamonds and pearls thing going. I have to admit, we looked gorgeous that night.

 

We started the weekend, which was actually a birthday celebration for one of my best friends, with a seminar with Sebastian of Bobbi Brown. The only real makeup my best friends and I use. The funny thing about attending the makeup seminar is that none of us actually use makeup on a daily basis. We’re the clean and scrubbed kind --- the wash ‘n wear lifestyle that suits our personalities rather well.

 

So, looking duly glamorous with our makeup (care of Sebastian and crew), we donned our little black dresses, strung our pearls and diamonds around our necks, ears, and wrists, clasped our little elegant clutch purses filled with cash and credit cards, stuck our freshly spa’d feet in three and four inch heels, and daintily made our way to the restaurant. (I probably wobbled and tottered, but I must have faked my way enough to pull off the whole catwalk strut thing.)

 

Remembering the whole experience made me think about the whole seeing and being seen concept. It also made me wonder… For someone like me --- one who’s hardly ‘seen’ because I hardly go out --- I would also be unable to ‘see’ anyone for precisely the same reason. No see equals not seen equals no Mr. Darcy. How depressing. I need to go out more. I live a very dull life with the occasional exception of those ‘outings’ with my best friends. I don’t go on dates and don’t get to meet new people. My choice in men is very limited. In fact, I have no choice because there are none to choose from. These ramblings are getting even more depressing with every sentence.

 

In an email I sent to a friend, I answered her query about how I was doing with these words… and I quote myself: “I trudge to and from work (distance: approximately 2 1/2 songs on my iPod from my flat to my office, including elevator rides), hardly going out of the building (unless I'm going to the bookstore to indulge my addiction or to forage for food), and never going out on dates. I've forgotten what women do on dates and, since I've been sporting short hair for a long while now, cannot hide behind glorious tresses or twirl strands of hair around my fingers in order to flirt to save my life... or at least my dignity. I have given up on ever starting on a diet. In fact, I've pretty much given up on even thinking about going on a diet. I do wish my building had a better cable network provider so I could at least claim vegetating in front of the tube as something that I actually do. Alas! Even at that I am foiled. I am in great need of a sturdy and solid bookshelf... or shelves more like. I have to get around to buying that LPG tank I've been meaning to get for the past 3 months but never got around to doing, therefore, forcing me to buy unhealthy fast food fare or those that come in cans, plastic cups, take away cartons, or microwaveable containers. I try to stick to a budget so that I could go clothes shopping (if not furniture shopping), but passing by bookstores is a great temptation I find hard to resist. (A wise man did say that the best way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.) I spend too much time at work. I keep hoping and dreaming that my ideal job would land in my lap. (Do you know of anyone who would pay big bucks to have me read books all day?) That's about it, I guess. All in all... pretty boring stuff.”

 

I have a strange life. Not quite a hermit, but very much alone. And then I ask myself… Am I sad? Lonely? Depressed? Hell no! I’m pretty content, actually. Except for one thing. No Mr. Darcy yet.