On Not Being The Official Girl (or we might as well name it as On Being That Other Number He Calls When He Gets Bored. Assuming You Are The Only Other Number.)

So it’s one in the morning and after a night out with your girlfriends, you wonder why after seven long hours you haven’t heard from The Boy yet.  You pick up your phone and casually ask if he was able to get home.  Three hours after, you’re still wide awake, wondering where in the world could he be and what bad thing may have happened to him.  At the back of your mind are two things: 1.) maybe he went home early, meant to tell you about it, and spent two hours in front of the computer instead, falling asleep while browsing Facebook, or 2.) he still is having a grand time at the party he attended that he can’t spare thirty seconds of his magnificent party time to your v. worried SMS.

Of course, there is another reason, and you put it at the back of your mind because you know it most likely is your most accurate theory, and yet it is the most unbearable.  Either way, it will – for the gazillionth time – dawn on you how it sucks to be you.

Fast forward to you finally giving up and letting sleep take over.  A few minutes after you snoozed, he sends you a message telling you he’s home.  At five fucking thirty in the morning.  And it’s not just a simple ‘I’m home!’ message.  It’s an ‘I’m home!’ with a smiley mesage!  Yes, after stressing over the possibility of him being caught in some vehicular accident somewhere remote (I am pessimistic that way), he texts you with an ‘I’m home!’ just like that.

Stress.

So now you are fuming mad.  You were so worried about The Boy you weren’t exactly expecting his gleeful ‘I’m home!’ with a smiley SMS.  Nevertheless, despite hating him for his obvious lack of consideration for your arteries, you still can’t help but want to pry.  SO WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN FOR THE LAST 5 HOURS?!?!  And so again, at the risk of sounding like a nag, you casually ask, “The party was obviously super fun… 5 in the morning eh?”  And guess what The Boy’s reply will be?

None.  Naturally.

So you spend the day cursing him and his insensitivity.  You already know what he’d tell you.  Or even worse, what he won’t tell you.  You know damn well Theory behind Door Number Three is our big winner.  Will it bother you?  Hell, yeah it will.  Should it bother you?  No, because – just in case you have forgotten – you are not the official girl.  Or more apt is that you are the other number that he calls when he gets bored.  Assuming (and I know you cross your toes every time) you are the only number.

At eight in the evening he calls.  Because you are stubborn, proud, and inconsiderate and since this is the seventeenth time you have told yourself you will stop being stupid and start trying to let go of him, you stare blankly at the vibrating phone and dared yourself not to pick it up.

Hurrah!  You survived the initial impulse to pick up the phone, let off some steam with a little sarcasm, and go on with your make-believe world and deal with each other harmoniously as if nothing happened.  In short, forget that he was such an ass the night before.

Five missed calls, four SMS’s, and 3 IM’s later, your back started aching with the pats you have been giving yourself and you start second guessing your actions.  Was I right?  Was it really Theory Three?  Was not talking to him the right way of dealing with the situation?  Did it not make me an insecure, jealous bitch?  Will I be able to accept the fact that he will always treat me like this and yet I will still be looking up to him as if he just declared that he just stopped global warming?

And so, true to being your foolish self, you finally pick up your phone and reply to his message with “Good night.”  And you justify your actions with “He texted first, I only replied to him,” and “There is no way in hell that I shall be the first to raise the white flag.”

And then you hit yourself a couple more times in the head while muttering, “Stupid, stupid Girl.”

Like that changes anything.

Meantime Girl Mode

A day at the spa got me thinking about my current situation (not that I hardly think about it, it’s been a constant buzzing bee the past couple of weeks in fact).

When most women (I was supposed to say ‘girls’ but I may not want the immature, childish impression preempting my post) find themselves in the predicament I’m in now, their next move includes plotting how to trap lonely guy in a corner and start planning vacations together.

That just isn’t my piece of cake.  I have never been one to pressure any one.  Especially one who has become so special.  Believe it or not (and I am already hearing some of you scoffing right now), I am happy.  Not Julie-Andrews-the-hills-are-alive-with-the-sound-of-music happy, but happy enough to make me look forward to the next phone call, the next weekend together, the next not-so-casual conversation, the next exchange of jokes, the next “Good morning!” and “Gnyt!”, the next breakfast together.  I mean, I know what we have won’t be as great 4 months from now when things would go back to not necessarily what they should be but, nevertheless, to what they really were.  But a teeny weeny voice inside of me is screaming, telling me that once I start making demands, then the little bubble of make-believe world that I am in would pop and leave me baffled.  Alone.

What a sad thought.

So instead of doing the right thing and discussing what our relationship has evolved into so we can put things in perspective, I have chosen to continue being mum about it and just savor the moments as they come.  Yes, some might say I have chosen the path of stupidity.  It ain’t easy, believe me.  You won’t believe how many times I have asked myself “Why?” and smack myself hard in the head again and again.  And again.  And the pain?  Just unbearable.  And I ask myself, Is he worth all these?

And I don’t have the answer.  Because the answer as I want it to be is probably the wrong answer, and the answer everyone has been telling me is right all along.

On Steven Curtis Chapman, ABBA, and the darker knight

… When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

So Joker described his bond with Batman as such.  There is something very compelling in this line – every time I hear it, I try to imagine how this is so not applicable in my life.  In vain.

In perspective, I am both.  With my extensive assortment of acquaintances and my more conservative choice of intimate friends, I am usually the unstoppable force.  I rarely pause once I start talking (err, thinking aloud); I am more of a go-with-the-flow person – as long as it is not in conflict with work, you can count me in.  I am, in general, not too difficult to please.  What is important is I am with the company I enjoy and I am all set.

There are rare times, of course, when I am in the mood to be obstinate and dealing with me gets too grueling.  As I said, these moments are rare.  And it isn’t as if I’ve done it by choice – sometimes work gets to me, people get to me, the really bad traffic got to me.  And it is not just an instantaneous reaction to things.  It could be that work has been stacking up for the past 6 months and my supervisor keeps on overlooking that sad fact as there is no workaround with ‘no available funds for another resource.” It could be that the person has been hot and cold and hot and cold and I suddenly just ran out of good humor.  The traffic has been bad since Day One and it has been more than 365 days.  You know how it is – little things that you choose to just wink at – but there comes a point when it becomes more stressful to hold in than to let out.  So I let it out.  I let it all out.

And you know what’s sad after letting lose all that angst?  You get reprimanded, they point you to a corner and tell you to wait.  Until they are better.  Until they are ready.  And you don’t have anything to hold on to.  Except time.

And to wait for that long a time until they are ready to forgive you – it’s pure anguish.

Just as good a timing is coming across this song as I was watching Lipstick Jungle on 2nd Avenue earlier today.  And I say “Thank you for the music!”

 

I found You in the most unlikely way
But really it was You who found me
And I found myself in the gifts that You gave
You gave me so much and I

I wish You could stay
but I’ll, I’ll wait for the day

And I watch as the cold winter melts into spring
And I’ll be remembering You
Oh and I’ll smell the flowers
and hear the birds sing
and I’ll be remembering You,
I’ll be remembering You

From the first moment when I heard Your name
Something in my heart came alive
You showed me love and no words could explain
A love with the power to
Open the door
To a world I was made for

The dark night, the hard fight
The long climb up the hill knowing the cost
The brave death, the last breathe
The silence whispering all hope was lost
The thunder, the wonder
A power that brings the dead back to life

I wish You could stay
But I’ll wait for the day
And though You’ve gone away
You come back and

I’ll be remembering You

And I’ll watch as the sun
fills a sky that was dark
And I’ll be remembering You
And I’ll think of the way that
You fill up my heart
And I’ll be remembering You

On Crossing The Line

I will be keeping my distance.
I shall ask less questions.
I would be not as engaging in conversations as I used to be.

You know what’s tough?  When being curious is taken as being intrusive.  When showing your concern is interpreted as becoming meddlesome.  I am naturally curious.  If I happen to see a friend while walking along the street, aside from asking them how they’ve been, I normally ask about other details.  How’s your ma’s health?  What happened to your younger brother?  Is your bestfriend still with so and so?  People take it that I am merely gossiping.  And no matter how much I explain this to one of my friends, he always, always thinks I am sticking my nose in his business.

Not that I am not.  However, it just isn’t a pleasant thought to know that your friend does not want you getting involved in his affairs.

Like it is easy to just watch and listen and not get a word in.  Like it’s okay to not want them to know that you care.

On Telling the Truth, and Pride and Dignity

So I did something really wrong.  Ang you know how it is when you did something extremely awful and you can’t sit still, you can’t sleep at night, you are usually staring blankly into space.

That was me the past couple of days.

Until today.

I do not know where in this earth I got the courage from, but I closed my eyes, typed in what I needed to say (my resolve to tell the truth did not reach the level where I have to use spoken words – I am that much of a coward), proofread what I typed in, and sent it to the person involved.

I have been told that the truth shall set anyone free.  So why is it that I am at a bottomless pit right now and I don’t know what to do next?

On Society Standards and Happiness

So I got double standards, I’ve been told.

So what?

I don’t see things in black and white.  Everything is gray to me.  No, I do not bend the rules.  Well, maybe I do.  There are times when the rules suck too much they do not seem like rules to me anymore.  I hate it that society dictates a set of standards and I am obliged to follow, and yet I hate it even more when people sometimes choose not to conform.

Yeah, so the rules are there so we can get some sort of order.  Does that mean I am looking for trouble when I question the rules?

Bottomline, when you bend the rules, and you make some one happy, then by all means… go bend it like Beckham!  — Okay, that sounded lame.  But you know what I mean.  Spread the cheer.  Show some love. 

But when you do something outside the boundaries, and you end up hurting someone (or a group of people) – be it deliberate or accidental – then there is no gray area.  It’s actually quite obvious, you moron.  You just became one selfish bastard.

So what happens when by breaking the rules, you make someone happy, but make another person miserable at the same time?  What breaks the tie?  Who wins?  Was any wrong done, or did the good deed cancel out the bad?  Does that make you a good person (because you made someone happy)?  Or are you a bad person for making someone miserable?

I… don’t know, quite honestly.  I have a friend who told me once, all she’s after is personal happiness.  And I don’t think it was a selfish remark…  After all, hurting someone does not make any one of us happy.  Unless you are naturally evil.  Which I doubt.  Because I haven’t encountered anyone who’s innately evil.  I always come up with an excuse for misbehaving people.  Sad childhood?  Probably.  Unhappy marriage?  Could be.  But there is no such thing as plain old wickedness for me.

Or maybe I am just nice enough to give everyone their Get Out of Jail Free card for meanness.

On Meredith Grey and silliness

So I am a big fan of Grey’s Anatomy.  I spend days watching episode over episode over episode on DVD.  I watch the reruns air on television each week, but when I can’t hold the excitement in, I yield to the enticing call of the DVD from inside the shelf and finish the entire season in one sitting.  I grab a pack of tissue and press ‘Play.’  And then everything dissolves around me and I find myself either running around Seattle Grace in my scrubs, getting breakfast ready inside Meredith’s home, or watching everybody else get drunk at Joe’s.

I just finished watching Season Four’s finale for the fitieth time.  Every Grey’s episode does that to me — take my breath away, that is.  Watching Grey’s is like watching A Walk To Remember over and over again.  You know you want to find your very own MerDer love story, and you know you don’t.  You know you’re gonna cry at some point (or points!).  It’s too painful, it’s too stressful.  But it’s beautiful that way that you want to go find a patch of land, lay 300 candles on it, and harangue your loved one with all the words within grasp without failing to reveal the deep affection you have for him.  You tell him you’re mad, yet you show him where you planned to build that room where you want your kids to play.  And you kiss in the end.  And then somewhat everything falls perfectly into place.

I am that big a fan, I have found an explanation, my very own medical findings as to why most of my friends think I am nuts.  Meredith sums it up in three sentences.

Don’t wonder why people go crazy. Wonder why they don’t. In the face of what we can lose in a day, in an instant, wonder what the hell it is that make us hold it together.

That is why I can’t understand Meredith at times.  She knows what she wants (in this case, she wants Derek).  You  know what’s even better?  He wants her, too.  So why aren’t they together?  Why did they even have to ceate the role of ‘Rose’ in this series?  Why did they have to take a break, when every lingering look and every muttered comment speaks of how much they are into each other?  I wanted to shout at Meredith and tell her it ain’t easy – to find that one person who irks us and makes us want to hug them tightly all at the same time.  I want to tell her to stop being stubborn and just… leap.  I want to scold her for thinking too much.  I want to tell her that if she doesn’t want Derek for herself, then by all means she can just hand him over to me.

But that won’t work either.  Because I am crazy, too.  I am as crazy as Meredith, if not crazier.

I am a worrier.  I am thanatophobic – aren’t we all?  I go all bratty sans the foot stomping when I have gotten used to getting a call every Sunday morning and suddenly one Sunday I don’t get that call and I don’t get any explanation.  I might probably stop talking to you for a few hours if you do that to me.  But that doesn’t mean I hate you.  I hate what you did, I got very worried, and it’s just too bad I am a nag when that happens.

I dislike disruptions in my daily routine.  That doesn’t mean I hate pleasant surprises, though

I hate arguments.  I don’t like the idea of not talking for hours – for days, even – after a row.  I love talking in general, however.  Some refer to it as a discourse, eavedroppers may think of it as arguments.  I want to think of it as a debate.  When minds are alike and different at the same time and neither wants to budge — god, I love that!

I hate it when “How have you been?” gets answered with “I’m okay.“  I like details.  I feel that I am not being trusted when people get less specific.

I am demanding, too.  But I can’t bear the thought of disrupting another person’s life just because I want them to do something for me.  Even if I need them to.

I am that crazy then, huh?  Perhaps the level of craziness is proportional to the amount of fear that we have with the thought of what we may lose.

If that is the case, I guess I am plenty crazy.

On Carrie and the rain

We get to experience rain every day now for the past couple of weeks.  I find myself pointlessly walking outside the office (I work nights, by the way), hopping from block to block until I start seeing dark alleys, making me turn around and go back to the safer part of the city.  I used to tell a friend I feel like I’m in SATC – I am SJP walking back to my apartment in Manhattan – every time I walk along the streets of Manila after a drizzle, water puddles and all.  It has been a year since I got transferred to this area.  No, it still doesn’t feel like home.  I still find myself thinking about another city from my past, my home for a decade until last year.

But this city is no longer a stranger.  I raise my face, closing my eyes as cold July air brushes my cheeks and I forget albeit for couple of seconds that a molehill of work needs to be finished and that I have a dozen reports to submit by end of day.  For now I am Carrie.  And in a few years, I too will find my Big.

On Elphaba and Wicked The Musical

I haven’t had the chance to watch this on stage, unfortunately.  But I have read the book and countless times during the months it took me to finish reading it, I found myself pausing for long moments of silence.  I am Elphaba, the miserable girl who, despite knowing what she wants for myself, has accepted the fact that she is only as worthy of anything as the next person.  I am not extraordinary – in fact, I am weirdly different, almost bordering on freakish.  Bizarre.  Abnormal.  All that’s lacking is the green skin and I am good to go.

I fell in love with I’m Not That Girl the first time I heard it.  I can only assume that it was, is, has been in every girl’s thoughts at one point in her life.  He could be that boy, but I’m not that girl.  It’s that heartbreaking.

 

Hands touch, eyes meet
Sudden silence, sudden heat
Hearts leap in a giddy whirl
He could be that boy -
But I’m not that girl.

Don’t dream too far
Don’t lose sight of who you are
Don’t remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy -
I’m not that girl

Ev’ry so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn’t soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in

Blithe smile, lithe limb
She who’s winsome, she wins him
Gold hair with a gentle curl
That’s the girl he chose
And Heaven knows
I’m not that girl.

Don’t wish, don’t start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn’t born for the rose and the pearl
There’s a girl I know
He loves her so
I’m not that girl.