Crush in a Million

I had been gushing over his picture for a week already. It was kept firmly pressed in between pages of an old Archie Double Digest, far from the prying (usisera) eyes of my mom. I was 13 then, the typical adolescent made extra rebellious by the parental ban on having crushes.

My yaya, who was very resourceful, made friends with the neighbor's maid and eventually got ahold of his picture -- a full-body shot, in shorts and a t-shirt, sitting on a stool jar typical of households whose folks either once went to Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore or Zamboanga's Barter Trade.

It found solace under my pillow each night, in hopes that it would penetrate my dreams at one point and I could finally say "hi".

We had met at house parties before. I used to believe we were destined to be together, with them 3 boys in the family and my having two sisters. When I think about it now and ride the juvenilia, all of us could have been made for each other. Being an adolescent, I was too keen on looking out for so-called signs, I overshot.

Oddly, we only went as far as nodding when our parents would remind us of each other's existence. "Oh, Ness, si Jay-Jay!" After which, I would retreat to my room, which was no help by the way, as other kids have already found refuge there among the toys. Well, at least, he wasn't there.

His picture was of the cheap sort. What could I expect? His maid probably stole the least noticeable one lest she be accused of lusting after her own "alaga". The help were ecstatic! They were playing matchmaker to their surrogate children.

He, however, did not show any sign of admiration toward me. Not even a second glance or a follow-up nod. And when I displayed myself infront of m house, pretending to be engrossed in my bike, he saw through. I was invisible.

Still convinced that we were destined, I had to exercise vigilance. Perhaps he was just oo shy to come up to me. I had been reading too much of Sweet Valley Twins. I was the Elizabeth. He was my Todd Wilkins. In my world, that is. Nevertheless, I pleaded my yaya to ask him what he felt for me. I was so sure he felt the same way. (I look back at 22 and I can't help but guffaw. haha)

Her face was sullen when she returned, but all I could see was a young woman trying to suppress excitement. How powerful infatuation is, it blinds you! I almost bounded on her to get the juicy details. Finally, him and I would go past the candy looks and start talking serious business. My name attached to his floated slowly over me. I held my breath.

"Ne, dili ka daw niya gusto kay taba ka daw."

Hmm... did I say he was monstrously ugly?

In Absentia

In the three days I was absent from work, I got in touch with myself and the many books stacked at home. Rummaging through the dusty shelf only made the cold worse, but I knew I had to, at least, do something productive. So, there I was, staying away from the computer for a while, the device where, probably, emanates all my life's ills, and curling up in bed, reuniting myself with the hobby I most favored before my scheduled was injected with reality.

Reading.

I finished Sue Miller's compilation of short stories, including one which was made into a film, Inventing the Abbotts, and wondered why the movie did no justice to the print version. There was two of Coelho's book, Veronika Decides to Die and By the River Piedra I Sat and Wept, which, I have to thank Angel for freeing me from Kundera's pseudo-political sways in Unbearable Lightness of Being (which, I must admit, has become unbearable in the long run). There were also those soft files I downloaded from eons ago and compiled into my trusty laptop -- Butch Dalisay, HP Lovecraft, more Coelho.

Apart from such, my thoughts grazed upon the projects I left hanging just so I could have a so-called life. I began on each one painstakingly and ended up with 3 essays for submission, one short story and a couple potential articles. My absence also allowed me to work on extra chapters of Joey's novel, realizing that I was more critical and creative in moments where I could hardly breathe. (Hmm, maybe that could work with... ah... nevermind.)

Was it blessing, you may ask? In part, it was. The infection came with a nasty whip ordering me to stop thinking about the things around me and cease feeling too bogged down and busy. At first, I was extremely worried that there might be tasks unfinished or my virtual work desk be piled with deadlines when I return. After a while, I began dismissing the pressure and giving in to self-indulgence.

The house looks a lot different when I'm not rushing from one point to another. And, weird as it may seem, the office now looks more inviting. As if I were a traveller lost at sea and majorly elated upon the sight of land from afar. I took longer to take baths. It also gave me more time to stare at myself in the mirror and wonder how that girl staring back was able to handle the comings and goings. I began noticing how my closet was in such a disarray. I saw how my toenails were in dire need of trimming.

Maybe I should get sick more often.

Swollen

Even with the ascending stream of runarounds and working-like-a-dog-at-22 activities, I never broke down. I was too close to unbreakable. At times, I wished I was sick just to get away.

Last week, I found my match. It was with a swollen infected throat. The origin, I have no idea; but it was enough to have me lay in bed for two, three days and "rest".

How does a person whose life eternally circles on activity and pressure ever think of rest? I left a lot of projects hanging, deadlines unmet and people down because I had to get some alone time and wait for the ghastly expensive antibiotics to take effect.

I'm still at it, by the way. But I decided to get back to work lest I use up all my leave credits. Sicko workaholic.

Perhaps this is Life's way of telling me to slow down.