GIGI GOES GAGA

PRETTY SMART

I was never the prettiest girl in my neighborhood, or in school, or even in my class. Not even close, I was never a contender. So I suppose that's why it never bothered me that I wasn't, and why I wasn't envious of the ones who were. (I mean, sure, the extra attention would have been nice but there really wasn't anything I could do about my genes now could I?)

And although I have no idea what people ever think about me (or if they ever do), I suppose I've heard myself described as "smart" enough times to know I'm not the least bit stupid. And somehow, that has always mattered much more to me.

Some of my friends have teenage daughters now, and I expose myself to large doses of pop culture just to understand what kind of world my nieces are living in today. And just as I get the sense that it's more important for young girls to be "hot" Vs pretty these days, I also seem to think that there's more of a premium on looks now than there ever was. Why else are dermatologists and cosmetic surgeons the rock stars of the medical industry now, after all?

And so I was having a conversation with this girl who was so down on herself because of her looks and how she thought she compared poorly to others, and although I knew she probably couldn't fully appreciate what I was telling her, I said it anyway:

When you get older you're going to hear your friends say, "Oh yeah, she used to be hot!" or "Remember how she used to be so pretty?" But you're never going to hear them say, "Too bad, she used to be smart."

Because no matter what we do, we're ALL going to age and looks are going to fade. There's really no such thing as "anti-aging," -- all that's just a bunch of marketing hooey -- so we must focus on aging well instead. But we can always keep learning or at least become smarter with experience, and that only seems to get better with time.

Perhaps I already knew all of this when I was much younger, which is why I never agonized (too much) over my not being one of the pretty girls. I guess you can say that then, I must have been damn pretty smart instead.

NOT ANOTHER BIRTHDAY BASHED

I did something completely different today, something I don't normally do and haven't done as far back as I can remember: I planned what to do for my birthday, which falls on this month. (Or more accurately, my birthday weekend -- because my actual birth date falls on a Tuesday this year, and who celebrates on a day like Tuesday? Or Wednesday even?)

I don't plan trips in advance -- which probably explains why my husband and I haven't taken a real vacation together EVER. For instance, I'll decide to go home to Manila from only a few days to a couple of weeks beforehand, with no real plan or strategy. I simply tell myself: I want to see my family and close friends. So after I see them...well, then I wonder why I traveled thousands of miles just to be alone at home singing along to the karaoke cable TV show. It's my fault, I know.

But late last night I decided that there would be no more birthday weekends where my husband and I spend more time deciding what to do instead of just doing something. I booked a room at a fun, hip hotel near the water in San Diego, made dinner reservations at a Spanish restaurant because I've been craving paella for months. Decided on a movie to see afterwards (something only I want to see but the husband will do anything I ask because it's my birthday, and so I plan to take full advantage of his complete, albeit short-term, acquiescence) . Early Sunday spa appointment for full-on pampering and then an Indian buffet lunch before heading back home (with a pit stop at the outlet mall).

Nothing really exciting perhaps -- there's no happenin' shindig in the works for sure -- but baby steps, peeples. And even if I had only planned this trip a few days in advance, at least I did at all. Right now, I actually amaze myself. And more importantly, now I don't mind turning yet another year older.

OK, maybe just a little bit.

JEAN THERAPY

I used to work with a gal who could have been my sartorial soulmate if only it weren't for her proclivity for long, red talons and killer stiletto heels (how she worked retail I will never know, although I suppose it must have involved a combination of phenomenal talent and sheer determination). There was one thing, however, we agreed on wholeheartedly, and she expressed it best: why wear jeans when it's just as easy to slip on a pair of trousers? And so for years my closet was practically denim-free.

My first pair of designer jeans was by Calvin Klein, which mom brought home for me from one of her educational trips. Although nothing came between Brooke Shields and her Calvins, a pair of granny panties split me apart from mine. This pair was softer and more comfortable than the Levis I once knew, but it wasn't cut perfectly for my already-curvy teenage figure. It didn't hug my waist as well as it embraced my hips, but still nothing a webbed belt couldn't fix.

In 1983, during my summer vacation in Los Angeles, I bought my first few pairs of Guess? jeans (including their famous 3-zip Marilyn, of course). The brand was just beginning to explode nationally, although my sisters had been shopping at the Marciano brothers' MGA store in Westwood for some time already and I envied their closets. I loved the brand's multitude of stylish choices -- so cool and California casual chic (even if the brothers were French). Still, they didn't fit me as well as I would have liked; as my sisters said, you had to be built like a boy to wear them perfectly.

After that I pretty much gave up on jeans, especially since I hadn't met one that I learned to love, one that was comfortable and truly flattering on me. And in 2000 when the luxury jean market opened up in the U.S. with Seven For All Mankind, I didn't understand what the hoopla was all about. Spending more than a hundred bucks for low-rise jeans that didn't fit me at all? Yeah, right. Never happening.

But here's the thing with girls who grow up not being conventionally pretty or sexy: many of us become relentless at finding ways to make things work for us to compensate for what we weren't naturally given. With the hundreds of brands and thousands of fit options out there, I was sure there was one designed for someone like me. And after slipping on countless pairs this past year, I've found a few that simply work. For instance, I'm a fan of Joe's Jeans Honey fit, Paige's Robertson, Citizens of Humanity's Amber, and with the return (finally!) of the higher rise jean, I've been rocking AG's The Elite (although Oprah loves The Club and it seems to work for me although cut a bit lower than I'd like), Joe's Jeans' The Muse, and James Jeans' Hector.

Here's the key for all of us curvy, non-skinny girls: we need jeans that aren't cut too low so that our rounded parts are hanging out of them and no pleats or vertical side pockets, please. They need to be tapered from the thigh to the knee, with the break slightly above the actual knee to create an illusion of a longer leg line and the bottom with a bit of a flare (like a bootcut) in order to balance our hips. I prefer a little bit of a stretch (about a 2% elasthane seems to work) and a darker rinse, and I find that a pointed-toe shoe helps enhance the illusion of long and lean. Personally, I need the rise to be at least 8" because I have a long torso; anything lower than that and my jeans fall off my hips (my sister Tina can tell you about the time this actually kept happening to me at the train station in Pasadena when I wore a pair of low-rise skinny J Brands -- again, a webbed belt purchased during a mad dash to H&M saved the day). Remember, however, that what one brand considers high rise is another's mid-rise so if this is an issue for you then you need to find out the actual measurement to help you pick out the one that fits you best.

I'm convinced, however, that when it comes to off-the-rack clothing, a professional is still needed to create real magic. So just this past weekend I brought a pair of GAPs I wasn't loving as much to test my local tailor's skills at tapering the upper leg. If he passes then I might never need to buy another pair of jeans again.

Yeah, right.

BACK AT THE GYM

I went to my personal training session today. My trainer's name is Elvis; he's a sweet kid and I can't stop staring at his nicely-sculpted biceps. Perhaps I'll get over my strange fascination for them when I develop my own.

For 30 minutes he made me do various exercises to gauge my fitness level. When we were done, none of his observations were a surprise to me:

1. I have strong arms and legs.
2. My core is OK.
3. I have weak shoulders.
4. My sense of balance sucks (all right, he didn't actually say this. But he made me do squats while atop this oddly-shaped dome thingy that functioned like a torture device and my knees wouldn't stop shaking. I kept at it only because he told me to hang on to his arms -- which gave me an excuse to stare some more at his biceps.)

Let me be clear about this: I hate exercise, I always have. Of course, each time I go the gym or do anything remotely athletic I never regret it afterwards and the endorphin rush actually feels pretty good. But it's the getting to the gym or the courts that I dread, and that's already half the battle lost.

Oh -- and the sweating. I might be the only person alive, in fact, who exercises in a way so as not to perspire. I actually thanked -- in writing -- the persons who were responsible for purchasing the treadmills with those little fans on the control panel -- which I blast full-force at my face when I'm doing my run-walk thing.

But I know I need to be active, if only for health reasons, so I do whatever I need to keep moving. For instance, in the mid-90s I was determined to regain my '80s body and so I hired a trainer. He kicked my butt but he was eye candy so I put up with him and his sadistic ways. Still, I'm actually too shy to hit on anyone -- especially someone who's seen me looking like a soaking wet, ragged puppy -- so I never let on that I thought he was hot.

For instance, he used to make me do squats while standing really close to him, face-to-face, so close I'd feel his breath on my cheeks as he barked directions my way; he'd instruct me to hold on to his hands as I propelled myself downwards until I was studying his knees and while I pulled myself up until I was once again staring into his deep azure eyes. I swear I never looked at any part of his body in-between (OK so maybe I'd peek when he wasn't looking at me.)

So today as Elvis stood facing down at me, my back flat on an exercise mat, legs straight up and resting on his impossibly hard chest as he held my feet together, I cringed at the thought of how I now looked to him as I dutifully did my sit-ups. I visualized myself turning more red-faced by the second, mouth slightly open as I focused on my breathing, and beads of sweat forming on my forehead and chest.

I'll be there for my next appointment with him, for sure -- but not because my constant view is pleasing and his breath smells sweet (I must ask him for the brand of his gum next time). He might seem a tad bit nicer than my other trainer, but he promised to torture me soundly if I ever skipped a session.

Although. If it means falling off that wobbly half-ball and into his arms countless times like I did today, maybe that won't be such a bad thing after all.

SIAFU!

For years I've tried to peacefully and harmoniously co-exist with the ants that unfailingly appear inside our home every summer. Perhaps because my nature-lover friend Chiqui used to feed the ants in school, I have more sympathy for these nuisance creatures than I probably should. I'll also admit I greatly admire these hardworking soldiers: they work all day and all night, every day, and they carry loads heavier than their own weight.

So I don't kill them unless they get to our food or when they start checking out the kitchen. Otherwise, if they're simply grocery shopping in the bathrooms or bedrooms I ignore them -- especially because there's nothing remotely edible to be found in these private spaces and I assume they'll give up soon enough. When they do go too far or stay longer than I can handle, I kill them with a forceful spray of surface cleaner (it's the multitasker in me: when I wipe up all evidence of the battle scene, I end up with a bright, sparkling floor or counter as well).

But now I'm convinced my patience and tolerance has only served to embolden them: they are everywhere, like they own the place or something, and they're simply not going away. And I'm finally fed up.

Not only have I had my ass bitten in the loo a couple of times already, but before I went to sleep at 5:00 am today (yes, you read that correctly) I first had to lay waste to entire armies that were crazily swarming inside the trash bin. What was in there? Well, let's just say it's THAT time of the month for me (sorry if you got a gross visual just now, but how else was I supposed to put it?). These ants are cannibals, I'm convinced -- they're like the African siafu, who have been known to kill and devour chickens, cows, and even babies left alone. They're after my blood -- literally!

So now it's war. I'm headed for the hardware store to buy poison traps and I'll plant them in every corner of the house. It will be ant annihilation peeples; these suckers must DIE! It's either their ass or mine -- and I don't like having mine bitten (unless I ask a particular someone to do it, of course). Sorry Chiqui -- I'm with you in the green movement and all, but if I leave them alone I'm only going to be seeing red from now on.

REMEMBERING RIA

I always thought she was the prettiest girl in class. My earliest memories of Ria were from when we were still in the first grade: she looked so fragile, as she had the tiniest bones I'd ever seen and skin so pale and translucent that you could see a bit of her veins peeking through underneath one of her cheeks. Although I recall her quietly but intensely drawing most of the time, when she'd explode in laughter she could knock the walls down. But most of all I still remember her lovely smile, sparkling eyes; and dark, slightly curly, shoulder-length hair. I used to wish I could look and draw like her.

In the fourth grade she changed the course of my life, although neither of us realized the significance of the moment at that time. I used to have a volatile temper, accompanied by a vulgar propensity for swearing. One day she confronted me and in a low, stern voice warned me that if I didn't learn to control my fits I would lose all my friends. I have not been described by any of my friends as particularly quick-tempered since then; when I'm in a crotchety mood I tend to keep quiet and to myself until the cloud above my head passes and the sunshine is back in my face.

Somehow Ria and I parted ways in high school and then she was gone. I'd heard she was living in States but I didn't know when she left or exactly where she resided. Soon she no longer became part of my consciousness, except for rare moments when I blew my top and the memory of her young face and scolding voice came back to haunt me.

Before I turned 19, I left home to study at a private, Jesuit-run university in Los Angeles. I was studying in my usual spot in the library one regular afternoon when unexpectedly I felt two strong fingers firmly jabbing the back of my right shoulder blade. I turned around, and in front of me was a familiar face, only now infinitely more beautiful and taller than I'd remembered. I nearly screamed from shock and excitement (I would have, if the librarian hadn't been sitting nearby) and then we hugged each other tightly. Ria explained that she had seen my picture and name on the front page of the school newspaper, and because I was inside the library when the photograph was taken, she assumed she'd find me here again.

We both were often busy but we'd catch up on our lives whenever we found time to get together; I quickly realized she still had a wicked sense of humor and the same smart, sensible mind. The only thing that surprised me was that I'd expected she'd pursue a career in art or at least in something aesthetic or creative; instead she was studying business and accounting (but as usual, she was a good student).

Before the semester ended, right before I left for Manila to spend my summer vacation, we had a long phone conversation and she vented to me her frustrations about her father not liking her boyfriend (or perhaps the idea of her having one at all, I suspected) and other things young adults normally tend to complain about. As we hung up the phone, I promised her I'd call as soon as I got back; I looked forward to spending more time with her and becoming even closer friends.

Instead, when I returned I found out she was dead. Someone we both knew (this guy had a huge crush on her for years) told me an aneurysm was the culprit. Ria had passed away before she could graduate from college, before she could put all her plans into action, and she could grow into the woman she wanted to become.

In the end she was still beautiful, just the way I'll always remember her -- the same way I've remembered her from the very beginning. Come to think of it, Ria and I were never really quite as close as we could have been, but just the same, her simply being around made all the difference.