Tuesday, June 28, 2005
In just a few hours from this time, I will officially be saying, "it's my last year of claiming I'm in my 'twenties'". Damn.
What ever happened to those moments when we'd anticipate our birthdays, plan the party (however phony the 'surprised' reaction was), get excited over opening impeccably-wrapped gifts (be it "assigned"), devour slices of pizza/Buffalo Wings/pasta/dimsum/sashimi/blueberry cheese cake (OK, maybe not in THAT combination), and reminisce of years gone by?
Ahhh...those were relegated to "childhood"...ditto with Christmas, New Year, and Family Day-Sunday. Miss all those.
All I have now is a staggering mélange of peculiar emotions coexisting at almost the same time, it's causing disorder in my existence: anxiety, pressure, indifference, agitation, lamentation, ambiguity, and some other nondescript emotion(s).
Receiving my very first "Happy Birthday, you old man" text message at 11 last night, I was made to think, "what exactly have I done in my 28 years that would get comeuppance for this new year in my life?" In retrospect, I got somehow dismayed, yet at the same time pleased--again in almost alternating intensities.
At 29, I have seen most of the Americas and partly the world; fell in and out of love with umpteen fascinating and stark raving mad individuals; lost three Palm Tungstens; posed nude for a photograph and was placed on exhibit; made love in the setting beach sun; earned and lost in an instant thousands of US dollars; poured gallons of tears over family problems; almost got deported by US Immigrations; published a book of poetry; semi-drowned in deep water; taught over 3000 students and trainees; and found my niche in the corporate jungle.
At 29, I am yet to see New York; take a gondola in Italy; buy my own pickup or Beetle; find my true purpose in life; help my family more; find the one true love of my life; take my picture with the Stonehenge at the background; perform at Greenbelt2 as a regular singer with my all-male quartet (note to self: finalize my percussionist and guitarist); have sex a la Mile-High Club; tattoo my Cancerian design onto my tummy; construct my 4-door rental apartments; get rid of my belly--by good ole workout or lipo-dissolve; make my mark in the HR/Training industry; jumpstart my training consultancy firm; take French lessons; and clean up my filthy condo.
I am [almost] ancient...but justified. When does life really begin anyway? 30? 40?
Dammit. Age is a digit. I stopped counting after 21. Now...time to sleep. I still have to work in 7 hours.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
I started working out at Gold's Gym Makati about a week ago today. I've been going non-stop every night after work, and I've been sore down to the last ligament every morning thereafter.
This started as a retribution, statement kind of thing to Fitness First after they have fucked with me and my almost protracted patience. But that, my dear, is yet another blog. You be watching out for that one.
Day 1 was quite "cute" considering I was new and I had to be taught how to use the facilities. Good thing I was already a member of Gold's Gym in the US, so the orientation didn't take long. After barely fifteen minutes, I was done and left with nothing else to do but cardio. I was advised not to be doing weights, as I was going to have my physical endurance and flexibility test the next day...replete with fasting and all. So I looked around, checked the group classes, and decided to join the "Happy Hour" spinning/cycling class. That sounded "happy". Twenty minutes in the session, I was literally gasping, huffing, and puffing for air. I thought I was going to need a defibrillator. As David (our instructor) yelled out "One notch up!" (referring to the tension knob of the bike) and almost immediately a "Two more notches!", I realized how I was going to die: not through a tragic car accident, or a gunshot, or some illness, or Angel of Death taking me in my sleep; I was going to die having a coronary on a stationary bike. How's that???
Finished the session quite well, however...triceps throbbing, heaving breath, and wobbling knees notwithstanding. My night workout was done.
Day 2 was weird. I was goddamned hungry from fasting from noon (I was supposed to grab a bite before my "fasting deadline" at 3pm, but because of an extended-long playing meeting with the VPs of the company, I ended up not having any), and my blood sugar was nose-diving like crazy. After a couple of pinching and stretching and measuring and weighing, I found out I was NOT overweight, but I have to lose two or three pounds just to have a "better" body composition. And I was told I was flexible...to which I replied "You have no idea..." *evil grin*. After that, I sneaked out to KFC to grab a quick chicken fillet sandwich and a Coke. Minutes later, after being invigorated, I decided to join a group class. Determined to join the cardio martial arts class, I entered the room...only to find out at the last minute that it was Street Dance Class. Too late to leave, and with the fearlessness that I've had professional dancing experience in college anyway, I joined and danced away to a series of Sean Pauls and Beyonces. Thirty minutes into the class, I walked out. I was too old for hip-hop. Haha.
The other days were fine. Abs and biceps and triceps and backs and legs and all those parts that needed conditioning got their chance to be worked out. To complement the hardwork at the gym, I have lowered my rice intake to one cup (don't overreact just yet. I used to be able to eat THREE), and turned to lots and lots of vegies. I do micro-meals and other healthy approaches to dieting, thanks to my mentor, Alex. Ah. The pains of wanting flat abs and achieving better health.
If this frickin' belly doesn't go away, I swear I'm doing liposuction. Watch me do it.
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Just when I thought I was totally way up there in the league of "crazy," my friend Heinrich (aka Erick) came raining (hell, hurricaning) on my parade. Over six bottles each of San Miguel Strong Ice (I'm totally off the hook with the darned antibiotics), Erick told me what's been up his sleeves lately.
Apparently, Erick met someone online (yes, we still do that). Let's just call her Fiona of Mactan, Cebu. Being the tease that he is, he started corresponding both on- and offline with her. Erick's an investment banker, while Fiona's a balikbayan from Sydney whose job is to manage a chain of restaurants in Cebu. For the whole frickin' day, the two of them were exchanging SMS and MMS.
When Erick got home around 11pm in his condo, which is about a few doors from where I live, he starts dialing Fiona's mobile phone. There was instant connection. Fiona was funny, smart, engaging, and flirtatious. Perfect pair. (I am yet to see how this Fiona girl looks like [she's in his Friendster list, apparently], but from how Erick described her, I'd say she's got a little Cindy Kurleto going on. Damn hot.)
About an hour into their conversation (yes, they were on frickin' mobile phones. You do the math), Erick started things going. "Fiona, I'm a very visual person. Describe to me what you're wearing and what exactly it is you are doing right now." Fiona said, "My roommate's gone for the day, I'm on my bed, just slipped out of my blazer and skirt, down to my undies. I am playing with the cord of the phone, and my legs are crossed and rubbing each other." Erick bit back, "I"m wearing sando and my boxers. I am touching my crotch as you speak. My eyes are closed, and I'm imagining licking your nape, as I run my fingers on your breasts." He thought he went too far because he heard Fiona just breathing quietly on the other line...until the breathing turned heavy. "Keep talking, Erick," was what she said after.
Yes, I think you know how this story would end. Suffice to say, to give you a general idea, Erick told me that he collapsed on his LazyBoy recliner with nothing but a soiled towel (and not just with sweat, mind you)...and Fiona with nothing but a few rounds of giggles and more heavy breathing.
If you want the blow-by-blow, go email me. I'll tell you the nasty details. After all, I have permission from the "owner". Hehe.
Erick, Erick, Erick...I swear, I'm going to beat you to the real thing. You smutty, smutty, phonesex-ing boy.
Monday, June 6, 2005
Woke up this morning late for work. Well, not exactly "woke up late". I woke up at 6:10am to workout at the condo gym. Donned in my usual gym outfit: loose grey shirt, gym shorts, my ever-dependable Nike sneakers, and a sweat towel. Went downstairs to grab the gym keys from the guard. Lo and behold, after having to practically drag myself outta my bed, the darned keys are missing. It had to happen to me today. Argh. So went back upstairs, briefly considered doing crunches on my recently purchased gym ball...and decided to hit the sack again.
Alarm went off on time, but my ear tuned it out...so I ended up waking at around quarter till eight. Late for work. After a quick-but-still-complete-and-refreshing shower, checked my armoire and saw a single pressed long-sleeved shirt: my company barong tagalog. Shrieks and biting of the lower lip accomplished, I decided it would be too late to press another one. Thanks to the brain-killing SWOT analysis and strategic planning worksheets that I had to mull on last night, I ended up falling asleep on my laptop, not accomplishing anything...including pressing today's shirt. So I went to work wearing the barong.
Barely five seconds into the building, I got the disturbed stares from my colleagues (others actually giving comments such as "Ben? What the...? Why?!"), hedgingly saying, "Oh shit, what has the world come to?!"
Uh-uh. Even I am surprised I actually wore this. It's a Monday. I will survive (to the tune of Chantay Savage's new rendition of the same title).