GIGI GOES GAGA

LOST IN TRANSLATION

Just recently, thanks to the amazing reach of Facebook, an old friend and I found each other. I don't know if he remembers but the last time I saw him wasn't a good moment for us. One sunny afternoon about 25 years ago, he had put his hand on my knee and I quickly brushed it off, and we couldn't look at each other afterward. Yet the last time we were together before this, which was months and months before, we'd kissed and said goodbye, promising to keep in touch. We didn't, or at least not continuously until the next time we were together again, like we said we would.

But that wasn't the reason for my brush-off: it was because by now I was seeing someone else who didn't like other guys touching me at all. And, like the idiot I was then, I thought that obeying my boyfriend's wishes was only the right thing to do. I don't know what my friend had thought of my rebuff; after all, earlier that year he had touched me much more intimately than he had tried to do so that afternoon. And it wasn't inside a stark campus organization office like we were sitting inside now either -- we had been on his bed, in his darkened room, inside the campus apartment he shared with another student instead.

I can't remember now if he had considered me his girlfriend, nor do I recall if he ever said he loved me even if there was certainly much affection between us. See, although he spoke English well enough to study in the US, he thought in his own language and oftentimes what he said and what I'd tell him would get completely lost in translation. There were times we'd argue stubbornly without being close to any kind of resolution until I'd realize we were fighting because of how we had defined a single word that one of us had used casually. Many words -- like love, for instance -- are defined and understood according to one's experience and world view. Now think of two people who learned how to speak English in two different foreign countries and you realize how a straightforward sentence can get so utterly complicated.

Still overall, language notwithstanding, we got along fine. I'd met all his friends, he took me to their dinners and parties, and we spent a lot of time together. He was a good guy -- kind, well-liked by everyone, down-to-earth, and solid. He had an inner strength that I lacked at that time, which is probably what drew me to him in the first place.

Going back to that night in his room. Before I showed up at his door I had just been with the boy who had recently broken my heart, which I had then foolishly handed back so he could promptly squish it this time around. I called my friend to see if I could come over; I never told him that I was completely in pieces, that I didn't want to be alone and I needed his strength. And so I wasn't alone that night, just like I'd hoped, but not how I'd planned. Inside my friend's bathroom, right after I pulled myself away from him, I sat there as if I never wanted to come out again. Underneath the harsh fluorescent glare, sitting on the toilet, I cried my broken and squished heart out, hoping he wouldn't hear me. For many years I pointed to this night as the lowest moment of my life -- not because of my friend, not because he was there, but because on his bed and in his room I wasn't quite there. I had lost myself completely, I had absolutely no self-esteem.

I often wondered what happened to him. He told me that he went back to his country a few years later and suffered a few major setbacks along the way. He said he'd lost his love, but added that he's fine now though still single. I was really sad when he spoke of his loss; I always thought a guy like him deserved so much love and care, the kind I couldn't possibly give him.

Then he mentioned that I'd put on a bit of weight since he last saw me (had he realized that we were barely out of our teenage years back then and that we were now -- gasp -- middle-aged?). "I want to see my Gigi back to the way she was before," he teased. My Gigi. He still knew how to be sweet right after pushing my buttons.

"I'll never be that thin again," I replied. "But I've been losing weight steadily and will be looking good again soon, don't you worry."

"You weren't thin, just sexy." he insisted. I blushed, realizing that he was doing some remembering of his own now.

I reckon that my friend and I are still lost in translation; this time, our definition of the simple word "thin" is separated by some 20 pounds. But no matter, now that we've found each other, now that I've found myself, and now that we have time on our side, I think we'll figure out a way to create our own dictionary -- and define the word "friend" again for ourselves, one that works this time around.

LETTERS TO NOWHERE

When my mind starts spinning, when I become a jumble of emotions and can't sort out what I need or want to do, I get dizzy and then lie down. Eventually, even if it takes a while, I get up and start writing.

Some people work out, others eat, and there are those who need to talk things through. Me -- I can't move or eat or talk until my mind is clear enough to do any of these things. Usually what helps me get through the muddle so I can carve out my exit plan is to write a letter. A letter which, more often than not, I don't send to the person I'm writing to because I never planned to in the first place.

Sometimes I wish I'd kept copies of these discarded letters; they represent my most honest self, I'm certain of it. Within the pages I've simply expressed myself without processing any of my thoughts and feelings through a crazy filter. I may have edited them for spelling and grammar (yes, I do this even if I know they'll never be read), but not for content. I'm sure if anyone else got hold of them they would think I'd clearly lost my head -- because that would be the truth, at least for the moment that I was writing in a frenzy of uncontrolled rage, frustration, confusion, sadness, but even love. After all, I've thought a lot of nutty things in my lifetime but I know better than to say them out loud. Well -- maybe that's not so true either, since I have this blog that can (sadly) prove otherwise.

The last time I remember writing such a letter I was trying not to fall in love, or at least I was struggling to talk myself out of it. Nothing about the situation made sense at the time -- not the guy, not the timing, not even the reasons I felt the way I did. But as I got through to the end I finally realized why I felt all that longing, all that fear -- and then eventually I didn't feel so crazy anymore.

But here's the really crazy part: I sent the letter.

I'd rather not discuss the consequences of my senseless decision, especially since somewhere out there is a man who has hard-copy evidence that once, because of him, I lost control and went into an emotional tailspin. The good news, however, is that once I got everything off my chest I regained my composure and started thinking more clearly again. The bad news, of course, is that because of my letter he was able to see through all my posturing to know I was confused, afraid, and possibly still in love even if I never admitted it.

So the moral of the story, boys and girls, is that if ever you find yourself wanting to say something to someone when you know you shouldn't, write it down anyway. And then burn the damn thing before you feel the urge to mail it. Or perhaps I should say instead, in this age of electronic mail, that once you've got it all down and feel a bit of relief from the release, hit "delete" before you click on "send." Trust me on this: no one needs to know you were crazy, especially when they can prove that you were.

LANDMARKS

Every year I visit my family and friends in Manila and stay for about 10 days. It's never quite enough, always too short, and something always has to give. Every year I make a list of people I'd like to catch up with, but usually -- if I'm lucky  -- I get to meet up with only half of them. And every year, on top of my list, is always Rosanna. If you've been following this blog for even a short while, you'd know why.

Whenever I visit, Rosanna bids her husband a temporary adieu and spends the remainder of the time that she's not tutoring her children with their schoolwork or taking them to doctors, with me. She's at the house the day I arrive and helps keep jet lag from robbing any of my precious time by keeping me up until midnight, so that when I awake in the morning I'm up and running again.

We go through her schedule and she asks me what I'd like to do. I often plan my one-on-ones with friends when she's not available, and then she and I meet up together with all of our common friends. At the end of my trip I always feel happy knowing that I've caught up with my best friend, until my next visit again.

But this year, about halfway through my trip, I received a text message from her and immediately felt my heart leap and get stuck in my throat. She wanted to schedule an appointment with me so that we could spend a bit of one-on-one time of our own together; she felt that all she'd been doing thus far was tag along to wherever I needed or wanted to go.

I stared at my phone: how could I have been so dumb? She was right -- just because two people are together physically doesn't mean they're necessarily connecting on any deeper or meaningful level. I was taking her presence for granted, the way we normally (and wrongly) do with our families. Just because she's always been present in my life, I saw her the way we often view landmarks in our cities: without them our home is never quite the same but we simply assume they will always be there. In a way she was no different from the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty -- the cities they represent certainly wouldn't be the same without them, but how often do the residents bother to revisit and try to see them in a new or different light?

I told Rosanna once that if she were to ever leave Manila then my yearly visits wouldn't ever be the same; it would no longer quite feel like coming home even if my parents and sister still live there. There would be a gaping hole where she once was, it would be like staring at a familiar skyline and knowing that something's missing.

So I texted her back -- no appointment needed, just tell me when you're free and I'm open. And so during this trip my best friend and I simply sat and talked with no distractions. I learned new -- and surprising -- things about her, and we shared things that had happened to us years ago while we were apart. She was new to me again, as I was to her. And by the end of the trip, as I sat at the airport lounge waiting for my flight to board it hit me so hard: I was really leaving home.

500

This is my 500th post within the span of almost exactly five years. Never thought I'd make it this far when I first started -- but I'm glad I did.

I've documented almost every embarrassing moment and failure in my life, though interestingly enough not every triumph or victory. The former always makes more interesting reading anyway, and the latter just feels too self-serving and pompous. By the way, why is that so -- considering that personal bloggers are accused of being narcissistic blowhards anyway? I suppose we simply appear less full of ourselves when we prick holes into our souls.

I have no idea of how many of my relationships I've written about (serious ones or otherwise), but a few of the men who have appeared on this blog have now read what I remember about them and/or us. So far no one has disputed my recollection of events, which brings me considerable relief, and a few have even expressed their appreciation for my efforts. Although A's recent feedback to me was that I have the memory of a digital camcorder, I suspect that the others are just going along with my recollections because they have few or none left of their own. For instance, R (whom I dated 25 years ago) said that he found himself nodding "Oo nga, oo nga (that's right)" toward the end of my story -- which indicates to me that he'd forgotten a bit of what transpired between us way back then.

The next bit of feedback always surprises me: as R put it, "Why so PG?" He said a little bit of spice would have been nice. I explained that my intention was not to maintain a sex blog, which seemed to disappoint him slightly even if said he was merely joking. A was even more blunt: "Why didn't you mention how I'd asked you if you were horny on the drive back to your place that night?" Uh, because I didn't want to remember that part, that's why (shaking my head).

This all got me thinking of how I'd feel or react if an ex-boyfriend of mine kept a blog and wrote about our sexual life in detail. I'd be horrified, I suspect, even if I were identified only as a semi-random initial (as I do here). But going back to what I was saying originally, would anyone really want to know what I thought or remembered about THAT part of our relationship anyway? Isn't anyone afraid that I might have simply been (too) polite in real life? OK I'm kidding. Maybe (insert smiley face here).

I'm wondering now where the next 500 posts will take me. I'm planning huge changes in my life starting next year, which might even entail my having to fly through the air without a net below. In the meantime I'm mulling over decisions I need to make in order to take flight. One thing for sure is that I'm not quite the same person I was when I started this blog, which only means I probably will be a different one at the end of the next 500 posts, too. Only change, I suppose, is ever constant in life. Well, that -- and the fact that there won't be any kind of heavy breathing here anytime soon. Sorry, boys.

NO FIGHT TODAY

I was warned to be careful, that someone with a bone to pick with me might start a massive smear campaign against my reputation, the way she often does with anyone she views as an enemy or threat.

I sat still, unperturbed. First of all I'm not worth her time; I'm simply not in the mood to fight because I don't see a battle worth waging here. I don't think I'm an important enough trophy for her to win either.

Second, I asked my concerned friend, what could she possibly say against me that I haven't written about myself first? You're absolutely right, she said, and then she leaned back against her chair.

Thanks to the relative permanence of my blog (yep, once posted online it's there forever unfortunately) I'll never be a politician, a kindergarten teacher, a Catholic anything, and certainly not a marriage counselor. There will be men thinking I'm an easy lay (but only if they're not reading carefully) and women wondering if their daughters will ever become like me, for better or for worse.

I've got to admit, if I'm going to remain honest here, that there are things that can be said or written about me that can hurt still. Most of them can be easily waved away once I can get my ego and vanity in check; the rest are simply false.

There won't be any fight here. It's simply no fun trying to shoot bullets at someone who's already riddled with holes and yet is still left standing.

THE A CHRONICLES: BOY MEETS GIRL

"You're like a man," my friend Rosanna said to me quietly.

I had just finished telling her how easy it was for me to separate love from sex. You get them mixed up, I said, and you get into more trouble, if not heartbreak. Best to know the difference then. She asked me the obvious follow-up question: have I ever had one without the other? Yes, in fact, both sex and love without the other, for different reasons, at different times.

The sex part is easier; being literally naked is easier -- and I say this fully aware of the potential for irony here, given my laughable fear of being seen in public wearing a swimsuit. I find the love part can get messy, and that being emotionally naked is a dangerous gamble with forces beyond my control. And yet I say all of this believing that deep inside of me lies the soul of an unabashed romantic: I'm still waiting for my Lloyd Dobler to show up outside my bedroom window wearing a trenchcoat, holding a boombox way up in the air.

Then I think back to the last time I had to make that distinction between love and sex, which now seems like a lifetime ago. My friend A and I were hanging out at his apartment after dinner, listening to music and talking about our respective relationships. He was clearly on edge and I kept trying to keep the mood relaxed and easy. At one point late in the evening I was tempted to throw my arms around him and hold him tight, to tell him not to worry about anything. But while I was thinking about it I discovered, with slight horror, that I might not want to let go. And then I was on edge.

When it was time for him to take me home, he joked as we were waiting for the lift to arrive, "I told you that you should have slept over tonight instead." I said something about his couch not being good enough for me. "Who said you were going to sleep on the couch?" he asked. I think he might have even said his bed was large enough for both of us, but I don't remember, my brain was spinning out of control.

"That would be too dangerous," I replied softly as we walked into the elevator. He looked at me, and I felt his curious gaze burn my face (or maybe my cheeks were merely hot from thinking about what I didn't want to think about). Inside that small empty space we found ourselves at opposite ends, unsure of what to say next. It was the same way walking through the garage, and even after we climbed up into his SUV. I remember bits and pieces of questions and monosyllabic answers, but I wasn't paying attention to what we were saying, only to what I was supposed to be thinking.

On the dark, empty road he asked me, "Would we regret it if we didn't turn around the car now and head back to my place?" No, I said (it sounded like a plea, I think), and I silently thought, "Please get me home before everything changes." And then we were outside my place. My right leg wanted to jump out and run for safety but my left desired to stay a bit longer and be next to his.

He hugged me goodnight but he held on tighter than good friends do. I inhaled the scent of his skin and felt my heart throb against his in fast rhythm. And then we kissed, ever so softly. It's funny how you think you know a guy and then discover his lips are softer than you might have expected. It's funnier, though, when you realize you've never even thought of his lips before.

This might sound like the start of your typical love story, but it wasn't, not in the slightest bit. A and I did end up crossing boundaries but we didn't do so without a quickly scrawled road map. I told him I wasn't going to fall in love with him; he said he wasn't worth falling in love with anyway. And then we fell into each other, confident that we'd placed both our hearts on the night table before we did.

I can't say there was no tenderness between us; in fact, there was much more than I'd bargained for. Perhaps it was the friendship between us, the unyielding honesty and openness we'd already shared. Maybe it was because we trusted that we'd each take care that the other's heart remained intact. Perhaps with A sex did commingle with love, just not the kind that expects happy endings, the kind that ends with both of us happily coming home to the other at the end of a long day. There was simply no way that would ever happen with him and me simply because of who we were,  where we were, and possibly of where we each were headed in our lives. I suppose when you grow up you sometimes discover that love -- romantic love, at least -- doesn't conquer everything, and so you don't even try.

A and I are still good friends even if the nature of our friendship was inevitably altered. Sometimes, when I receive a message from him, usually funny or touching in some way as always, I think: "I am still not in love with you." As for him, he's usually off on one of his many adventures, still not the kind of man to fall in love with. In a way he's like Dobler outside my window, but neither one of us ever taking a step to be with the other. It's almost like the non-romantic, non-love story where the romance never ends because it never really started; a boy-meets-girl that stops right then and there.