Rodj pointed out how some people can fill out a photo album (with selfies) in a week. (Or a day, even.) But while we were still dating before, we never had many photos.
We had very few photos together. If we compile all our photos, we won’t even fill three pages. We did a mental inventory: One or two in Baguio, some from Bataan. (He said photos with big groups do not count.)
So, no, we don’t even seem to have photos of us when we were still boyfriends.
That we were talking about these things while watching Deadpool (something in the movie triggered the conversation) on the eve of Valentine’s, our hands held, weirds me out a little because it’s several layers of surreal.
But surreal is nice, too.
I had a tarot reading gig recently in Canyon Woods in Tagaytay. It was for an Oktoberfest celebration and the organizers chose a carnival-like theme for this year.
We came there early and was lounging around the club house while the other performers where doing their sound check. To pass the time, I did some tarot readings for some of the organizers.
One of them, Edith, saw me after we just had our lunch. I was walking around and decided to undo my bun, letting my hair down.
“But you had short hair earlier!” she said, mildly surprised.
It’s not an uncommon reaction. Tied neatly, I can keep my hair in a small man bun, typically tied behind my head. It also isn’t too obvious how curly my hair actually is.
Untied, my hair expands and occupies more volume, like a time-lapsed explosion. Even now, it looks like a Jewfro when I let it down.
When I was applying for a visa for India a few months back, the woman who handled my application asked me if I had a more recent photo; I told her the photo I submitted was taken just a week earlier.
My photo looked as if I had closely cropped hair because my bun isn’t visible. She saw I had one in real life because I tied the bun higher than usual on that day. So I untied my hair and made a bun lower, hidden behind my head, to prove that it was a recent photo.
I find it amusing how tying or untying my hair is enough to drastically alter my appearance. It makes me feel like I could turn myself into some kind of super-spy.
Day Twenty: The stupidest thing I ever did.
What is with these superlatives?
Can one always categorize all the experiences one went through with one’s life and separate the smart from the stupid. Following that, one must then rank, with considerable amount of objective accuracy, which one is the least stupid, which one is the next, and so on.
But this is day twenty and I’m two-thirds done with this challenge. Great time for me to even start complaining about the daily topics. Admittedly, these little asides are just ways for me to introduce what I will be writing about, as well as maybe pad my posts a little.
Day Nineteen: My secret shame.
Be wary of someone who claims their life is an open book. Everyone is hiding something.
That’s the irony of the social media (and the internet in general): it allows us the ability to show our true selves, so of course we take the time to show only the best side of our supposedly true selves. Rarely (or never) the ugly bits.
Even those who supposedly show the less pretty aspects of their lives still manage to keep them within some level of acceptability: It’s funny, or instructional, or it attempts to humanize the sharer.
Of course there are those who willingly share questionable content online: demeaning low-income workers, mistreating children, or even killing dogs. Except for cases where the sharer seem to exhibit serious mental issues, there is an element of pride in these shared posts. The people sharing them do not feel shame in doing so.
There’s that thing, shame. It’s curiously absent from the internet. There those who shame people for their posts or actions, it has become of the favorite pasttimes online. And there are those who thrive in shamelessness. But not much is shared that was driven by shame.
There are many things I have done that I am ashamed of.
Day Fifteen: One thing I never learned.
I never learned how to swim.
I got it from my mom. She hardly goes out of the house and she’s afraid of deep water, so none of her kids grew up knowing how to swim.
Our dad was away on military assignments for most of our early childhood. If he had it his way, we would’ve been swimming for most of our childhood years because he grew up near the sea.
I’m tall-ish for a Filipino. Five-foot-eight. So when it comes to company or barkada excursions to the pool or beach, I’m not afraid of getting into the water as long as it’s not more than five feet deep. A little deeper than that and I start to get nervous. Close to six feet and I will wade away to shallower waters. I can’t even float.
It’s kind of pathetic, actually.
One time, an ex-boyfriend asked me, “what if I was drowning?”
“I’d be sad,” I promptly answered. I think he never forgave me for that.
Lately, I thought about learning how to swim. But there’s always some excuse or another stopping me. I even bought swim trunks and a goggles to motivate me. But, alas, it has yet to happen.
So here is the fastest way to kill me: throw me unto the ocean. I’ll panic and I’ll drown. And then I’ll turn into a mermaid.
Hah. I wish.