Too Old for This!

You are getting old.


You know you are getting old when you have started to worry about grown-up things like money and bills and birth control and wrinkles. You know you’re getting old when busboys and security guards have stopped calling you ‘day and started calling you ma’am. You know you’re getting old when people start mistaking you for your 41-year-old mother. You know you’re getting old when you start feeling spastic aches and pains on your body, like your chest, your back and your limbs. You know you’re getting old when your size 25 pants won’t fit past your flabby thighs. You know you’re getting old when your Saturday night mini-skirts and itsy-bitsy tube tops are rotting away at the corner of your closet. You know you’re getting old when you actually start listening to the priest’s sermons and stop checking out the hottie sitting three pews in front of you at church. You know you’re getting old when your friends start having babies and start comparing motherhood notes. You know you’re getting old when hip-hop starts to sound noisy to your ears. You know you’re getting old when your Barbies and PollyPockets and Legos become untouchables and collectibles rather than playthings. You know you’re getting when you start sharing clothes with your mother. You know you’re getting old when you have no idea how to operate the god-forsaken IPod. You know you’re getting old when you stop drinking beer and start ordering iced tea. You know you’re getting old when you start to feel guilty about sleeping past noon. You know you’re getting old when you stop taking cherifer and start thinking about cosmetic surgery. You know you’re getting old when your lovely lady lumps in the back and in the front succumb to gravity and become saggy. You know you’re getting old when you start talking about taxes and political issues and stop talking about the hottest boybands. You know you’re getting old when your number of godchildren exceeds you’re number of fingers…

Are you getting old? I am getting old. Then again, age is a state of mind.

Excuse me while I go pluck my gray hairs.

in the name of my father.

I am a master of false pretenses.

I hide behind a phony mask of tolerable subsistence.

I am a fake, a sham, a mockery. I am a great pretender.

My life is one huge travesty. One charade after the other. I want to shed off my many different facades but yet I become more afraid of finding myself defenseless against the vindictive world out there. Sometimes I just want to give in and give up… surrender my fight against the cruel circumstances that the gods have thrown upon me. Sometimes I just want to let it all out… to scream, to cry, to arrogantly laugh without worrying what the people around me would think. Sometimes I go to sleep wishing that I would never see the light of tomorrow. And sometimes when mad and frantic conditions mercilessly consume and overwhelm me, I close my eyes and wish that the earth would just open up and swallow me.

They say time heals all wounds.

It’s been almost a year now. Yet the memories remain vivid and clear as if it all happened yesterday. In random moments in a day, pieces of my past would come into mind. A whiff, a scent, a sound, a phrase, a simple object, a familiar place… memories just come rushing back to me, taking me back to a time that now exists only in my memory. And I feel a dull ache, a clutching pain and a twinge of grief in my heart. It still hurts. And I know it will hurt for as long as I will live.

I want to be the brave woman I know I should be but the weepy, naïve little girl in me just takes over in moments like these. Maturity dictates me to accept and to move on, to let go and live. I’m trying. I really am. I just can’t help it that there are one too many times when I wish I could turn back the clock and do the things I should’ve done when I had the chance. Like spending more time with him or saying I love you more. I was unwilling to accept the gravity of the situation and I had run away from the reality that his time was running out. Because of my denial then, I am full of regrets now. I wish I hugged him more or talked to him more often or told him I loved him more than words could ever fully express. But  being the selfish, conceited, pretentious, hopeful and optimistic brat that I was, I held back it…I bottled it all in… and now all my pent-up emotions have nowhere to go.

To the eyes of many people, I may seem okay. But behind the huge grins and the measured smiles lies a girl with a broken heart and a miserable soul. Time heals all wounds but the scars will forever remain.

I don’t want to live a tortured life of pretensions.

If you were still here, everything would be okay and I don’t have to make believe.

I miss you dad…happy birthday…


i stand naked before my full length mirror and try to detach myself from— myself. i am determined to assess my physical being and to be able to accomplish this goal i must transcend into another plane— detach my mind from my mind because my own criticisms could hurt my own feelings… harsh reality can be extremely traumatic. i take a deep breath and slowly open my eyes. only to find out that time has not been good to me. i stare at myself from head to shoulder to breasts to waist to legs to feet… i stifle a cry of horror! that can’t be me! the person in the mirror had pimples! fine lines of wrinkles had developed on her face! her boobs were saggy! her abs… where are her abs?!?! noooo!!!!!!!! i could feel tears forming at the corner of my eyes. i feel remorse. my soul feels sexy but my body is not.

i start to think of peforming liposuction on myself. i conjur up self-images of slicing up my own belly to cut, gather and throw away twenty-two years worth of fat. if only i could perform that. warning! self-surgery is not a safe practice!

i get so mad at my body fat that i get pumped up and inspire myself to go to the gym! my, my. i would tackle all those machines and thingamajigs with unparalleled vigor and enthusiasm. i curse all the lard and blubber in my body. i pack my sweats and ratty old shirts and stuffed it all into my dusty, almost brand-new semi-used gym bag.

i begin to feel a growing sense of panic as i look at my body in the mirror. don’t get me wrong. i weigh a 102 lbs. and i do want to gain weight. but so far the only part of my body that has accumulated substance is my stomach! it frustrates me! why can’t fats distribute themselves evenly?! i am the hapless victim of fat discrimination!

as i once agin stare at the unsightly flabs on my otherwise near-perfect body, i make a vow. i will say bye-bye to the beer belly. my eyes squint with heartfelt determination as i challenge the fats to go away. i give my non-existent abs one last venomous stare… i’ll torture you with crunches, bitch.

no boyfriend since birth.

No boyfriend since birth. Twenty-two years of human existence. Spent alone, by myself. Grown woman, no man. I have never felt the pain of breaking up, never felt the hurt that comes with relationships, never experienced jealousy or envy, never shed tears over some guy, never had my heart broken…

i have long ago abandoned my childhood fantasy of being whisked away by my dashing and debonair prince charming. Unlike the female characters in the storybooks I used to read, I didn’t need anyone to rescue me. I didn’t need anyone to make me feel whole and to complete me. I had become a skeptic, an agnostic and a disbeliever that pure bliss actually existed. I have been disillusioned. And I have actually embedded into my stubborn brain that happy-endings were meant for other people and not for me.

Now, everywhere I look, everywhere I turn I am bombarded with images of cute couplings… like a slap in my face, like driving a stake through my virgin heart… marriage and children have become priority topics in any conversation. and I have officially become the crying shoulder, the sympathetic listener, the comforter and the-friend-who’s-there-when-everyone-else-is-preoccupied-with-their-own-sordid-love-lives. I am the patient bystander, the mute witness, the omnipresent observer of other people’s lives.

Instead of passion, I now feel apathy. I sit and watch. To the world I may be just another cynic, another skeptic when it comes to love and everything else that comes with it. there are times when I acknowledge loneliness, times when I accept that I may have taken self-isolation too far, times when I realize that my self-preservation tactics have done nothing but secluded me from the wonderful unpredictability of love.

No boyfriend since birth. I’m surrounded by friends yet I feel alone. I’m not saying that I need a man to make me feel whole but depriving myself of an intimate emotional connection with another human being makes me feel robbed of an absolute existence.

I have never felt the pain of breaking up, never felt the hurt that comes with relationships, never experienced jealousy or envy, never shed tears over some guy because I have never wanted to take a chance, to take an enormous and blind leap of faith and to risk everything I am for one person. And I have never had my heart broken because I have never truly opened up my heart to the remote possibility that love actually exists… not just in novels and stories… but that love actually exists— for me…


i am bored. in my complete state of boredom, i do things before my mind could speak to my body parts and tell them to stop. i end up scratching non-itchy patches of skin or tearing out my hair strands in chunks or unconsciously bite my nails or write non-sensical blogs like this or compulsively arrange my already compulsively-arranged stuff or daydream to the point of zoning out and completely losing track of time, space and so-called sanity… or end up thinking of the one person i have vowed to forever not think about…

it has taken me approximately seven months to train and control my mental musings and emotional dramas of Him who shall not be named. i have, or so i thought, controlled my fantastic illusions of love and lust and everything in between. i have willed my mind to grow up and forget about all the sappy girly fantasies of him, willed my brain to trick my heart into believing that He was just a phase— a passing figure in an insignificant circumtance in my life. i thought my mind had won the battle against my stubborn and stupid little heart.

in moments of silence, even more in moments of solitude, i think of him… not as passionately as before… but he still affects me in a way that no one else ever had. i can’t explain it. i can’t make sense out of it. even i sound extremely delusional to myself, succumbing to teenage drama when i’m no longer a teenager. crap. pinch me, talk sense into me, kick me, slap me and punch me in the head.

i am bored. and i don’t want to be bored because i end up doing things i really don’t want to do like saturate my blog space, waste money on the internet, arrange dusty old diskettes… or think of the person i should not be thinking about…

i will not think of him.i will not think of him.i will not think of him.i will not think of him.i will not think of him.i will not think of him.