No Kim is an Island

Since my later years in college, I have gotten into the habit of disappearing off the radar for weeks, even months at a time. In this country where even the manong magmamangga owns a cellphone which probably costs more than a month of his earnings, I’ve even gotten as far as not using my mobile for three months. It’s a feat (If I were Jason Bourne hiding from CIA assasins, which I am obviously not otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this blog.) but it’s not one I’m proud of.

When it started it was just because I needed time alone, to feed the monster which had become my sadness, and to figure out who I am, and what I really wanted. After that, there was always an excuse – my feasib, my diet, the gym, my family going at each other’s necks, or my pocketbook. I can honestly say, at this point my “me time” has become my comfort zone. And that’s fine, it’s prepared me for that solo flight backpacking trip I’ve been planning for the longest time.

But it has a downside too.

I’ve become too comfortable with being alone that more often than not I haven’t bothered to nurture my relationships outside of my family. I forget birthdays (forgivable because I tend to forget even my parents’ birthdays), bail from events at a drop of a hat (a result of my moodiness or random whims), won’t bother to send an email, and can’t even spare a measely hour for the courtesy beer. It’s selfishness really, and now I realize, all the moments I’ve missed have compounded into this one big void which should have been my experiences.

We rarely think of our friendships in the same way we do our romantic relationships, but in reality they need the same elements in order to work. Time, trust, sensitivity, a good ear, and effort. It’s about time I put in some of those.

No, I’m not wearing this dress to the office

Last week I wore my navy blue (or is it blue-gray) dress to work. It’s a V in the front with a ribbon, baby-doll cut, and some chiffony material whose name eludes me. The back is sheer for just about four or five inches from the shoulder and falls at the knees, like a bit of a bubble but not as fattening. A dress can sometimes be a woman’s secret weapon, this was mine until about two in the afternoon when my workmate approached me and whispered, “This is not me ha, but someone said what you’re wearing is a bit revealing.”

Hokay. I’m annoyed not because whoever this person is thought the dress was too much (and it’s not, I swear to God!), but because he (or she) didn’t have the guts to tell me. And the idea that it turned up in a conversation, “Oh, by the way isn’t what she’s wearing so __.” (and how do things like a colleague’s outfit choice come up?!) is so creepy, and reminiscent of high school pettiness (yes, I am also guilty of said pettiness, but haven’t been for a LONG TIME). And I’m annoyed because  I would like to imagine that people have more depth than to call a bit of cleavage or a low back (and I can’t even call it low), in a word, bastosin (tama ba?).
 
Never mind that I adore it, or that it’s Marc Jacobs, or that it in itself it is a work of art, or maybe that this is theTWE.Yes, there still is a limit as to how  much people can show (or not show), but clothes are not the person or maybe I’m just sore because it’s me. (And for the record, I think said dress is gorgeous.)

Nevertheless, isn’t it time to change the way we think? This is not me being western or American (which most people claim is the source of all things trashy), this is me being wordly (in the true sense of the word). We’re all eager to embrace world – to live, see, travel. To be global (which I keep on hearing these days), TO BE A CITIZEN of THE WORLD, and when something is a sign it’s actually here, people are f*cking uncomfortable. Well here’s a heads up: This is the new world, and fashion is part of it.

A gift to Lola

I made this for Lola’s 90th, something sort of a present. Amazing, it’s hard to imagine she had a life before becoming my doting grandmother, but she did and she’s been everywhere! Paris, London, Greece, Turkey… I guess there are some things that don’t change at all in any generation – we’re all explorers who want to find out what’s out there.

Hand Me Down Spaghetti

How many times have I heard people say (not including the times I’ve said it) that they don’t want to end up like their mother (or any other family member, for that matter)? Too many.

Here’s the kicker: There’s no escaping it.

If I really stopped to think about it, so many things about me – how I think, act, the way I talk, how I react – I’ve taken from other people. Not an exact copy, more like a copy that’s blurred around the edges and in the center. It’s the same, but it’s different: It’s ME.

There’s one dish I make for people when all else fails. Spaghetti Bolognese. I make it with a mix of beef and pork (like both my lolas), with leaves of laurel for aroma (like my mom, dad, and lolo), and sun dried tomatoes and milk and sesame oil (me). I wonder how this recipe will turn out in the years to come.

I am like my mom, lolos, aunts, uncles, lolas, and sometimes I am even like my friends. Who I am is made up of fractions of the people I know, meet, or love, all stitched together by this person who just happens to be Kim. I am not bound to turn out exactly like my mom or dad or any person I know, I’m going to turn out as me, and that’s a comforting thought.
 

I must have eaten the marshmallow

In the Stanford Marshmallow Study it was determined that delayed gratification/self discipline is the key to long term success. Children in the test group who resisted eating the marshmallow were shown to be more financially, mentally, and emotionally stable in their thirties, in comparison to two-thirds of the other children in the test group who did not resist the urge for instant gratification.

I must have eaten that damn marshmallow (Jemai’s way, eating it and then saying someone else did is obviously the better option). This isn’t quarter-life crisis. This is the truth. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE. And I’m nowhere close to a state of stability.

What kind of life do I want to live? All I know is that if it is a life filled with travel, books, and new experiences, then I can die happy. But about the other things – family, career, making a difference, meeting Oprah – I honestly can’t tell. If it pays to have a vision, then at the moment I am at poverty level. Don’t get me wrong, I do want to attain some level of success, somewhere. I do want to be able to make a difference in someone’s life. And I do want to be counted among the non-marshmallow eaters of this world, but I have yet to know where I’m going, or how to get there. And I’m okay with it. Sure, I have my must-focus-on-income-generation activities, but when the income actually comes it slides out of my pocket to pay for those things in life I choose to enjoy. That’s not exactly delayed gratification, but I’m happy.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, there’s a quotable quote for everything. Maybe that’s because people get to and measure success and non-marshmallow eating in different ways. Maybe I’m not doomed to a life of instability. Maybe a great (not necessarily stable) life is out there and I’m right on my way.