Dogbert’s Whip

I don’t about you guys, but for me, Tuesdays are unbearably dull. Work’s just started the day before, and it’s still a far cry before the weekend ushers in the fun that we all crave for. I actually prefer Wednesday, the middle day, when hope creeps back into my subconscious, realizing that the dreaded work week is bound to cease. But Tuesdays? I only have three words for it: Never. Nada. Zilch.

Like most weekdays, I got home last Tuesday feeling exhausted from my daunting office tasks (right!). I snatched some time to snooze and reminded myself to call my self-proclaimed techie officemate, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), by seven in the evening. QPT has recently decided to devote more time for the MS Computer Science degree that she’s currently pursuing in UP. Thus, she vacated her posh Ortigas condo and moved into the bone thug-infested neighborhood of UP Bliss.

As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, UP Bliss is a run down neighborhood of dilapidated, multi-level housing structures.  Although I stay in Bulding 2 and QPT found her niche in Building 19, we’re practically neighbors now, and it suits us perfectly since we’re both horrible time managers who nap in the late afternoon and hit the covers again only after midnight.

QPT and I agreed to have supper together that same evening. However, my original plan of calling her at seven never pushed through due to an unforeseen glitch with my cellphone (which handily doubles as my alarm clock, by the way). I woke up past 8:30PM, and I hurriedly washed my face, wore street clothes, and went down the flight of stairs to meet QPT in her pad and confront her potential rage and hunger pangs.

Stepping down on the last step of the stairs, I barely saw a man who stepped tentatively in my direction. It was quite dark in our building, there were no overhead lights to speak of, but I was sure that the man wore his dark shirt as a mask. As I turned to leave, the mysterious person began to speak in a chilly voice that is somewhat also laced with rage. He said: “Saan nagpunta ang dalawa? Saan sila umakyat? Saan sila nagpunta? Sa third floor? Sa fourth floor?”        

At this point, I inspected my surroundings. All the ground floor units were locked and cave dark. Realizing that nobody was around, I glanced back with the intention of asking if his queries were intended for me. Before I could even speak, I was rattled by the way he stood his ground, and with clenched fists firmly planted on his sides and a faraway look, he proceeded to murmur: “Uulit ka pa ba? Taas… Baba… Taas… Baba…”   

Goosebumps erupted on every pore of my body. It was definitely one of the freakiest moments of my life. I turned away so fast that a walkathon could have been in order. Through my peripheral vision, I could feel the person follow me in short, calculated steps. Proceeding to a mid-run, I turned around to check if he was still following me. Alas, as if in a snap, he was no longer there, not even a trace of his scrimpy shirt mask.

Later that night, I recounted the strange experience to QPT in her pad as she ravenously chomped on her Chowking Supreme Chicken and pineapple juice. With bits of chewed rice forming arc projectiles from her lips, she made fun of my cowardice and apparent low tolerance of anything deviant or paranormal. “What if you see him again on your way home,” QPT inquired, rubbing sauce off her cheek with a soiled napkin. “I mean, what if he’s a homicidal psycho or a renegade ghost with a mission of vendetta?” “I’ll let loose a high-pitched shriek so loud that it won’t matter to me if I rouse the whole of UP Bliss from its peaceful slumber,” I said matter-of-factly.

Thirty minutes past twelve, I finally got tired of QPT’s i-Tunes, her Keebler raisin-and-oatmeal cookies, and her endless whining about the difficulties of the real world. Since her roommate finally got home, I decided to call it a night and head back to Building 2. When I got there, I realized that the gate has been closed since it was well past midnight. I inserted the key and for some strange reason, the blasted gate wouldn’t budge open. With my heart beating a jillion times per minute and beads of perspiration forming on my brow, I murmured for the mysterious masked entity to leave me alone and let me in. With a chilling breeze of cool wind, the lock suddenly unhooked, and with galloping steps, I proceeded to embark on the maddest dash back to my room.   

The world seemed smaller as I opened my eyes last Friday morning. For the short, few seconds that I reluctantly pressed “snooze” on my ageing cellular phone, I sat down on my mattress, and realized that a combination of puffy and itchy sensations permeated from my eyes. I stood up and stared at my reflection on the mirror. Before me was not the prettiest sight one could ever look at so early in the morning: through a head of rumpled hair and a hint of spittle on the corner of my mouth, a pair of red swollen eyes made me look like jaded Mandarin who was just bullied by a giant bumble bee.   

It’s really a bit weird as to how I developed this eye allergy. As if on a whim, my eyes suddenly have an adverse reaction to dust, contact lenses, and other alien bodies that come in contact with our peepers.  I first contracted this allergy last summer when my left eye swelled up, and being the cry baby that I am, decided to consult an ophthalmologist in Makati Med. The lady doctor diagnosed my condition as a simple case of sore eyes (or in my case, sore left eye), and prescribed two different types of eye drops – an antibiotic that costs around PhP 300 and insanely expensive “artificial tears” that retails for PhP 600 – to relieve my discomforts. She assured me that if I’ll religiously apply the eye drops on my left eye (one drop of each type, three times each day), I’ll be up and about in three days max. My visit took all of fifteen minutes, and before I turned to leave, I had to churn out another PhP 500 for the customary professional fee.

Three days later, however, my condition did not improve at all, and my right eye decided to join the bandwagon and swell up like its leftie counterpart. I marched back to Makati Med, sorely disappointed and battle ready to confront the lady ophthalmologist who just rigged me off of 1.4 grand. Arriving there, the drab secretary told me that the lady doc will not be reporting for clinic that day, and if I desire, will consult her brother (who is, mother of all shockers, another ophthalmologist, by the way) instead.

The Li’l Devil on my left shoulder poohed and bahhed. Ignorance is hereditary he snarled, and that Paris Hilton is probably Mensa material if I fell for the trap for the second time. The Li’l Angel on my right shoulder, however, argued that to err is human, and that the sibling ophthalmologists deserve a second chance at redemption. 

I am not a religious person but I’m always rather inclined to side with the Li’l Angel. And since I didn’t know of any other ophthalmologists in the first place, I decided to play along and consult the brother. After a routine examination of my swollen eyes, the doctor gave the same diagnosis and advised me to apply the same eye drops for the next seven days. “*&$#@^ (name of sister) should’ve advised you to apply the medicine on both eyes,” the pudgy doctor added, “so the infection shouldn’t have spread to the other eye.” Before I left, the secretary charged me for PhP 400, and not for the usual PhP 500 since I came in only for a “follow-up check up.” “Thanks a lot,” I snickered sarcastically. Maybe I’ll donate the hundred bucks that I just saved to UNICEF and feed a zillion homeless kids. “And have a great day!”

On my way back home, I phoned my mom to complain about my condition. In my mind, there’s got to be a catch from all of this. My mom suggested that my condition could be a simple case of eye allergies. Months back, one of my brothers also had the same symptoms, and after administering anti-allergy eye drops for a few days, my bro recovered soon after. Trusting my gut, I bought the same anti-allergy eye drops that my mom has spoken of. Within days, I noticed considerable decrease in the swelling of my eyes and recovered swiftly. Four short months after my first brush with eye allergies, I was once again thrust in the same predicament. And it had to afflict me when I was gaining good momentum with my work and with my badminton training. I was then left with no choice but to rest out my allergies for the whole weekend.

When you’re down with puffy eyes with nothing left to do but eat, sleep, and watch Animal Planet on cable, you start to notice the small things in life. On my part, I realized that a footlong hotdog sandwich sold for PhP 25 each from the friendly sari-sari store could make for sumptuous meal. It was refreshing to see kids play street games once again in this age of computer games and the virtual world of the internet. I was even amused by my landlord’s collection of religious statues that were carefully arranged on top of his china cabinet. Why, there’s even a lamp that burns lavender oil on one of the desks in the living room! No wonder it smells funny during the morning.

I couldn’t believe that I’ve missed out on life’s little pleasures simply because I am too absorbed with my own little self. Last weekends’ bout with eye allergies may have prevented me from having a great time with my pals, but in the process, I got a definite eye opener. Sure, a potent formula of steroids, antibiotics, and other anti-allergy agents are slowly easing the redness and swelling of my eyes. But for the first time in the longest span, I haven’t seen anything so clearly. 

The past few days have been gastronomically challenging for me. Most yo-yo dieters like me would attest that losing weight is never an easy affair. As I’ve mentioned in my last blog entry, I’m bent on losing 2 lbs per week to slash off a couple of centimeters from my protruding pot belly. On my part, I have managed not to consume more than a cup of rice per meal and have channeled the will power of Dr. Phil McGraw not to gobble up any more snacks. So far, it’s been great. I’ve lost 3lbs (“Woo-hoo!”) last week and have denied my erstwhile partnet-in-crime, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), the free lunch that she unsuccessfully predicted to gain week after week. 

Just when I thought that my food binging days were over, I made the mistake of visiting my auntie’s house back home in Angeles City last Saturday. I practically grew up in that big house in Marisol Village, and as far as I could remember, the food there has always been a scrumptious feast. Every party in that house would see guests scampering for a portion of the insanely delicious roast beef. The meatball spaghetti, morcon, rellenong bangus, chicken pastel, bringhe, and among other viands would draw orgasmic gushes of gustatory satisfaction. See, my family has always taken great pride in their excellent cooking, and when such reputation is at stake, no chances will ever be gambled or taken.

Living in Manila for the past eight years has greatly adjusted my taste in food. For example, I no longer complain that the pinakbet in this part of the country is almost devoid of the generous servings of pork that accompanies the same dish, “pakbit” as we call it, back home. It was thus a refreshing change when I found out that last Saturday’s “low key” lunch affair would involve some of the staples of good ol’ Capampangan cooking.

Once it was announced that lunch is served in the backyard canopy, we commenced to help ourselves with generous servings of steaming rice, calderetang kambing, ningnang hitu (broiled catfish), pork and chicken asado, sinigang na maya-maya, fried eggplants, and buru. In case you’re wondering, buru is actually an infamous Capampangan delicacy that consists of fermented cooked rice with shrimps and/or fish. It is sautéed in garlic, onions, tomatoes, and ginger, and even when thoroughly cooked, buru still has the pungent odor of rotting rice (why of course). Although its texture somewhat resembles cat vomit with an orange hue, most of us Pampangueños would consider boiled or fried veggies dipped in buru as something to die for. It’s definitely an acquired taste, and I guess one man’s cat vomit is another man’s stinking heaven.

Most of my relatives present in that lunch feast ate with their bare hands, something that definitely makes the eating experience more pleasurable. I for one have always been too lazy about washing my hands before meals, and as a result of that, have mastered the fine dexterous art of removing fish bones with a spoon and fork. No one bothered to ask how I developed such unusual skill since they were all, as you’ve guessed it right, messily greasing the serving spoons as they scooped themselves for second servings.

Conversations that abound during those kinds of family meals would always tend to delve into obvious nostalgia. Most statements would start with “Do you remember the time…” and would end with hearty chuckles and Coke-induced burps. Of course, the oldies would also tend to inquire the youngsters about everything from our careers and to our love lives (or the lack of it). Everything that you say while in the meal table would be welcomed by eager ears, and will often merit some sort of approval and reassurance. Family gatherings surely give us an overwhelming feeling of love and acceptance, and although we don’t do them often, we all savor them like odd delicacies.

I hitched a ride with my uncle back to Manila that same evening. He’s the original geologist in the family and it was no wonder that most of our discussions were about the copper-molybdenum mine prospect in Peru that he’s currently working on. In passing, I also mentioned that driving along the North Luzon Expressway (NLEX) nowadays have ceased to be the bumpy ride that threatened of morbid accidents on every slope change. He agreed, and mentioned that the only downside of things was the sharp mercurial rise of the toll fee. From Balintawak, the toll fee to Angeles City is PhP 184, one-way. Before, one only had to pay less than PhP 50 bucks for the same thing.

It didn’t take long before we arrived in Manila. The familiar hustle bustle was there, the air pollution filled my lungs, and countless billboards constantly distracted me. After going home to the serene suburban feel of the province, the grim reality of metropolitan living seems like a bitter pill to swallow now. But as my uncle dodged Bayani Fernando’s pink fences and the recklessly moronic drivers that ply the EDSA route on a daily basis, I felt a certain calm and satisfaction knowing that more than just generous servings of caldereta and buru, the love and warmth of family members is just an hour away up north with the newly improved but now cost prohibitive NLEX.              

These days, I have a feeling that my waist line is expanding at a pace faster than our country’s inflation rate. Just weeks ago, I was lazing through the counters of a certain grocery when I chanced on this talking machine that measures your height, weight, and blood pressure if you’ll drop a five-peso coin into its slot. Rummaging my pockets for the required coin, I stepped on the platform and waited for the results – Blood pressure is 120/80. (Good.) Height is 5 feet 7 inches. (I still blame my parents for not getting any taller.) And for biggest shock that I’ve received in a long time: I WEIGHED IN AT A HEFTY 163.8 POUNDS!  

When I first got to Manila way back in 1996, I was a dork who weighed a mere 120 lbs and wore Levi’s denims with a waist line of 28. When I finally graduated from college four years later, well, I was still a dork but my weight increased significantly to about 140+ lbs. I decided to take up graduate studies immediately after my bachelor’s degree and the newfound stress led me to a steady diet of fast food and soda. It didn’t take long before I tipped the scales at 164 lbs. Worse, wearing my size 32 jeans made me feel really tight and miserable. Apart from that, most of my friends started teasing me for gaining so much weight. Some of them would give subtle hints like, “Bakit ka nakasuot ng muscle shirt?” when I’m wearing a regular shirt, or “Bakit parang mas malalim ang mga dimples mo ngayon?” when I manage a half-smile from such scathing remarks.

As I regained my composure from the initial shock of having realized that I’m a mere 0.2 lbs away from my heaviest weight ever, I swear that I could almost hear my grade school math teacher say: “Round it off to the nearest ones, you sucker, and it’s basically the same.” Back in late 2001 when I last hit 164 lbs, I wasted no time in visiting a small gym near our apartment and enrolled myself in a fast track “full body workout” program (read: weight loss program). For the next six months, I sweated off my butt for three times a week lifting weights, running the thread mill, and basically following all of the sadistic and otherwise dictatorial “pointers” of the gym trainers. And whenever my schedule permits it, I would supplement my fitness program by running three lung busting rounds of the UP Academic Oval (total distance: around 6.6 kms).

Genghis Khan may have expanded his Mongol Empire beyond Europe and Constantine may have relished his stint as the sole emperor of the Roman Empire, but nothing would ever compare to the feeling of satisfaction that I had when I decide to terminate my six month stint at the gym: I, the dorky weight conqueror, has shrunk to 136 lbs! Losing 28 lbs of adipose tissue left me wearing belts when I donned my old size 32 pants (my waist line then was about 29-30). I had a hint (yes, just a hint) of a six pack and I was definitely more muscular.

So what made me quit gym when I was doing so great? Well, it all boils down to my attitude problems. When I set my sight on a certain goal, I would do everything and exhaust all possible measures to see it through. And when I finally achieve it, I soon lose interest and look for other stuff do.

Another character flaw that I have is procrastination. I’m a champion crammer, by the way. I’ve always been the hopeless slacker who studies three hours before an exam and slaves the night before submission day for a project that was assigned at the beginning of the semester. During the latter part of 2004, my best friend, the Guru of Adidas and Badminton (GAB), noticed that I was starting to bloat like a balloon fish. GAB suggested that I should seriously consider more physical activity. “But I have physical activities,” I complained. Apart from tapping the keyboard, keeping my butt warm on the cushioned chair, and chewing lots and lots food, I did join the weekly badminton games with GAB and our other friends. But if you’re stuck in a an office cubicle for eight hours a day, five times a week, an hour or two of smashing lightweight shuttlecocks will never suffice. With that, I promised GAB that I would re-enroll myself to the gym “ASAP” and if I would procrastinate about it, I’d have to treat him to a lunch of his choice. What happened next is a no-brainer. I ended up buying him lunch, of course, and resumed my couch potato ways.

It wasn’t until a week ago that I got the definitive eye opener. In the clinic of our company, I weighed myself on the scale and learned that I just reached 165 lbs. “Great,” I thought, “I’m a pound heavier than my previous record. I’d have to tell the Guinness Book of Records and ask them to adjust their entry about me.” There is a chart in the same clinic where one could determine his Body Mass Index (BMI). The BMI is simply the ratio of person’s height and weight. I quickly examined the chart and soon found that that my BMI is about 25. In the same chart, I read that a BMI of 25-29.9 is classified as Type 1 obesity. I couldn’t believe my tough luck. I just wandered into obese country and it took a stupid chart in the company clinic to whack me back to my senses.

Sensing a wicked urge to whine about my weighty problems, I approached my favorite officemate slash worst critic, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), and sought her advice. Of course, she never gave me any. What QPT did next was to weigh herself and proceeded to gloat about how sexy (duh!) and ravishing (double duh!) she is with her healthy BMI of just about 19. A healthy BMI is between the range of 18-21.9. One is considered overweight if his or her BMI if 22-24.9. And anything higher than that is plain obese. Just like me. Sob!

Determined to lose my excess baggage of hideous fat, I struck a deal with QPT that would force me to lose weight. The deal would work this way: I’m supposed to lose 2 lbs per week starting the week of the 15^th of August. Official weigh-ins would happen every Wednesday of each week in the scale found in our company’s clinic. If I only manage to lose only 0-0.99 lb, QPT is entitled to a free lunch of her choice in the posh section of our building’s cafeteria. If I fall below the 2 lbs target (between 1-1.99 lbs) for each week, QPT gets a free drink of her choice to gulp down her lunch with. If I’ll religiously adhere to my self-made fitness plan, I’ll be down to 143 lbs by the end of October. Not bad, assuming if it will work at all.

This early, QPT is predicting a dismal failure on my part and week after week of free lunches and beverages on her end. She even reminded me, quite contemptuously and condescendingly, that no amount of starvation will ever suffice lest I work out my lazy butt off. Even on rare instances, I learned that QPT could actually make sense, and on this occasion, she clearly won the Battle of the Abs and I had to endure her endless pot shots at my pot belly in silent misery.

Not willing to lose without a fight, I approached another officemate to inquire about the gym that has been operating in our building. She gave me a small leaflet that details the available rates. As I scanned through the available fitness packages, I imagined endless torturous hours of sweating it off in the gym. In my mind, I could almost taste the sweet satisfaction of defeating QPT’s schemes to rig me off of precious lunch money. A smile actually etched on my face when I think of finally wearing my size 32 jeans comfortably without inhaling my gut to the point of suffocation. But alas, a line on the bottom of the leaflet, printed in bold face, quickly pricked my fragile bubble. It screamed: “We ONLY accept personal checks, VISA and MASTERCARD credit cards.”

I am obese but I won’t be able to enroll for gym membership since I am too needy to own a credit card. I am obese and poor – it’s an utter paradox, irony, and oxymoron – all rolled into one. In disgust, I decided to crumple that blasted leaflet, and as I threw the lump of paper into the waste bin, I felt my love handles jiggle in silent rage.

“The trouble with salted fish is water retention,” I heard the pompous lady tell her friend over breakfast. It’s so unlike me to eavesdrop on other people’s meal conversations. But this morning, since I ate alone, I was rather observant with the most trivial of human activity. I noticed, for example, that the Indian-looking man who also and often ate alone was having his usual breakfast – a single fried egg and two slices of white bread. How would he ever survive before lunch time?

Like most mornings nowadays, I find myself just staring at thin air. As if in a trance, the PC right before me transforms to a swivel of acrylic paint, clumsily slopped on canvas by a mediocre Fine Arts major. “No one ever notices what I do anyway; so why bother?” I’ve never been this lazy in my entire life. I’m in desperate need of a breather. Sugar Hiccup’s “Womb” is playing in the background and I feel strangely gratified. I’m slowly losing my sense of will to do anything productive. I’m sorely exhausted, and I can’t do anything about it.

A map of southwest Luzon was given to me by my boss, and had asked me to analyze it. Months have passed and I’m still staring at the map rather absentmindedly. I should’ve submitted a report a zillion years ago and yet, all I could ever think of are memories from yore. “There are three Quaternary stratovolcanoes directly south of Laguna de Bay,” my volcanology professor once told me. “I know,” I said rather cockily back then. “Mt. Makiling, Mt. Malepunyo, and Mt. Banahaw – all are mainly andesitic, by the way.” I squint my eyes to pinpoint the location of these ash-and-earth emitters. When I finally found them – etched pink ellipses on the landscape – I wondered why the person who made the map had not opted for gray instead.

My office pet, a carved wooden carabao I call Guyito, stands proudly on top of my monitor. “How are you feeling today,” he asks with his pointy horns raised. “And why the heck did you name me after that caricature from the Philippine Daily Inquirer?” I wanted to tell Guyito how sorry I am for being less than creative with his borrowed name. I also wanted to tell him how miserable I was, how it felt to have only loved once, and that now, I’m in shambles. I wanted to tell him that sadness, although not readily detected at times, is a thick hypodermic needle that zaps the soul out of us. Most of all, I wanted to tell him how badly I wanted to get my love back, and how dejected I am since I’m pretty sure it’ll never happen anymore. Never…

I wanted to say all that but I didn’t since he’s not likely to understand. And most of all, he will never answer back.

Well I’ve been afraid of changing

‘Cause I built my life around you

But time makes you bolder and children get older

And I’m getting older, too…

–Fleetwood Mac in “Landslide”

Two and a half years ago, I was a struggling graduate student who was in dire need to finish his thesis. At that time, I needed a place that’s quiet enough to make thesis writing conducive, and at the same time, should be within the campus to make matters more economical. By accident, I stumbled on a house in front of the UP Hotel (formerly PCED Hostel), and was quite impressed by the lush greenery and the landscaped garden that greeted me. Ate Bhems, the caretaker, explained that the lady boarders get to reside with the landlord in the big house, and are entitled to enjoy lush amenities like access to the television, refrigerator, and round-the-clock hot water. Male renters, on the other hand, are housed in makeshift shelters in the garden.

Before moving any further, let me provide this background check: UP employees are provided with cheap housing in form of bungalows or condominium-style abodes from the administration. To augment their meager incomes, UP employees usually lease a room or two of their homes to eager students who prefer to live on-campus. Some more enterprising UP Housing beneficiaries would build shacks in their gardens to accommodate more room hunters, and in the process, earn more bucks.

If one were to analyze the above mentioned scenario, it’s rather shrewd and illegal for UP employees to construct run down shacks, let alone lease rooms, in a property that does not belong to them in the first place. However, the Machiavellian part of me thinks that if the morally challenged actions of these people would help students secure precious on-campus housing, then it won’t hurt if we cast a blind eye on this practice since “the end justifies the means” after all.     

Going back to the house in front of the UP Hotel, Ate Bhems proceeded to show me around the makeshift-shelter-in-the-garden that a college friend still describes as a “gahd forsaken place” up to this day. This place is, for the lack of better words, a dilapidated patchwork of termite-infested plywood, beat up galvanized iron roofing, and sloppy concrete work. This crumbling abode has five rooms in all, and is equipped with such life-saving amenities like rickety bunk beds, miniature cabinets, wonky tables, and faded monoblock chairs.

Each of the 12ft x 8ft rooms could accommodate three persons, Ate Bhems explained, and for two thousand pesos a month, I could share the room with two absolute strangers. For the essential toilet needs, a narrow passage between rooms B and C leads to a wash area with two sinks and two cubicles. Each cubicle is equipped with a toilet that you have to manually flush, a water pail, and a tabo. “Sorry but the shower does not work in the meantime,” Ate Bhems said. “I’m not even sure if the flush will ever be repaired,” she added with a hint of an apology in her raspy voice.   

In all honesty, I’ve seen worse places that are being leased by shameless landlords for more exorbitant fees. After much contemplation, I decided to take the bed space anyway since I was really desperate to live on-campus. After paying the requisite two months advance and one month deposit, I hauled my stuff into the place (room A) that I would call home until June of this year.

Within that two-and-a-half year span, the house in front of the UP Hotel saw me scamper through my thesis about surface faults in a geothermal field. In the same duration, I was able to socialize with six different roommates. One of them, the Perpetual Soul Searcher (PSS), became a good friend of mine in the process. Two months after defending my thesis in March 2004, I was offered a job in Makati City but I refused to leave that place. See, despite the crammed conditions of the room, the hopeless situation of the bathrooms, and the long distance that I have to spend commuting everyday, Quezon City (particularly the UP Diliman area) will always be my security blanket. It’s one of the few remaining places in Metro Manila where the air is still filtered by tree-lined canopies. Most of my friends also live within Quezon City, making it convenient for me to crash into their places whenever I feel bored.

Just when I thought that I’ll never leave the house in front of the UP Hotel, a number of occurrences changed my mind. Early this year, I developed an eye allergy that my ophthalmologist misdiagnosed as viral conjunctivitis, or more commonly known as sore eyes. Up until now, I’m not 100% sure as to the actual agent that caused my allergies. But I have a gut feel about it: termite dust. The whole house is essentially covered with wood dust from termite colonies. There’s termite dust on my shelves, on my bed before I go to sleep, on the floor, in the bathroom, and heck, even the mango tree in the garden is lined with termite nests! Coupled with newfound stress in the workplace, my immune system probably tanked and decided that I’m going to have an adverse reaction to termite dust. Thus, whenever I wake up in the morning, I would sneeze like there’s no tomorrow. And to top it all, my eyes inflate like plump tomatoes if I fail to dab uber expensive anti-histamine eye drops before I sleep at night.    

Amid slightly reddish eyes one time over breakfast, I was ranting about the termite problem of my place to my self-proclaimed techie officemate, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT). In passing, I also mentioned of the hopeless bathroom conditions, and it didn’t take long for the posh condo-living QPT to blurt out: “Wha-at?! Kailangan mo pang magbuhos para ma-flush yung toilet?! Umalis ka na dyan!”

While I once valiantly proclaimed that nothing will ever drive me out of the house on-campus, the termite and toilet problems finally did me. Besides, I wasn’t getting any younger, and if I truly want to get hold of my life, I have to start changing my perspective by getting my own room. In retrospect, I also realized that living on-campus sort of had a suspended animation effect on my part. At the end of the day, the environment where I lived in still made me feel like the slacking and happy-go-lucky person that I’ve always been. And if you’re stuck in the corporate world where every tardy minute is logged by your company’s security and human resources departments, it won’t help if you simply brush things off with the brazenly cheeky attitude of a delinquent graduate student once you get home.

Armed with this truck load of rationalization, I’ve succeeded in finding a space of my own. For more than a month now, I’ve been leasing this miniature room (around 6ft x 10ft) somewhere in UP Bliss. Yep, you heard it right. I am now a proud occupant of one of those run down condominium buildings that reek of Imelda Marcos stench, or fragrance, depending on your political convictions. My new room has even more meager amenities than my old house in-campus: all it has are a small wooden cabinet, a shoe rack, and a single window that exposes my naked glory since it overlooks the main street – it is not the most pleasant sight, if you could imagine. In the meantime, I have been reduced to sleeping Japanese-style (read: floor mat and a thin mattress) until I find the time and save enough moolah to buy me a decent bed.

News about crib change has earned flak from my friends. Most of them thought that the most logical next step for me is to look for a place somewhere in Makati. A place in Makati would surely cut travel time significantly, and in the process, would increase my chances of not getting late for work. Some of them are also baffled by my decision to move to UP Bliss. Ironically, the place is far from what its name suggests: since UP Bliss is quite old and densely populated, the buildings are sorely dilapidated, the pollution is severe, and the crime rate is high. To sum up their sentiments, my friend PSS even remarked: “Ang alam ko kasi, basta Bliss, pang-mahirap…”

As we thread in this pothole-rigged road that everyone calls the real world, we’re likely to encounter things that were once alien territory: rent money, phone bills, anniversaries, pleasing the boss, Saturday night-outs, blind dates and love handles. Aside from innate wit, creativity, and a dash of good luck, it is essential that we possess a sound sense of responsibility and maturity if we want to increase our chances at survival. I believe that everyone has to start from somewhere, and if this “blissful change” will succeed in making me the well-rounded person that I desire to be, then I probably made the right decision.