The Road Rose Travelled

     This piece is perhaps one of the most difficult tasks I’ve had to do. It’s excruciating for me to write about a subject I used to secretly despise - Beauty.

     It’s not that I am extraordinarily "hot-looking" so as to indulge in the beauty-is-a-curse! drama. Neither am I extremely unattractive to wallow in spiteful gripes. Strangely though, there have been many instances in my life when I felt I was either one or the other.

     As a child, I’ve received quite a number of compliments. Even before I can name the three main islands of this country, my Titas were already placing bets I was going to be “Miss Philippines”.  Strangers too would say I’d grow into a “black beauty”. Never mind that the preceding question had always been “Bumbay ka ba?”, thus casting doubt on the integrity of my foretold beauty title. Those flattering remarks, and the suspicion that morena meant looking like Alma Moreno, somehow made me pleased with the way I look.

     But not for long.

     When I reached my teens, I found myself becoming more conscious of my appearance. AND, the ten thousand things one had to do to improve it. Suddenly, hair had to be styled by gels. Deodorants had to be used to prevent body odor. Oily skin must be covered by fresh talc. Colognes are needed for a fresher scent.

     As I learned more about these must-dos and must-haves, the less comfortable I became with my body. It didn’t help that my breasts were developing considerably. Or that my thighs and calves were growing bigger and more rounded than everyone else’s. I even had to experiment on various ways to feign ease and project coolness. But no! I never did manage. How could I when I had to slouch and drag my feet just to divert attention away from my torso?

     Part of my rude awakening were the disappointing discoveries about my previously-cherished attributes. Soon, I learned that white complexion was more desirable than brown skin. That branded jeans drew more attention than deep-set eyes. That thin is in and fat is out. 

     Thinking about such things was overwhelming, stressful even. I was realistic enough to know that drastic changes to my looks had certain limitations. For example, I can never be tisay. Only Michael Jackson can do that. Besides, I was proud of my dark brown skin.

     But while I knew that my energies and resources were better poured elsewhere, I also could not help but be bothered about my appearance. And so it happened that as time went by, I would make occasional attempts at making myself more appealing.   

     Ironically, as I grew older, things became much worse. I discovered that hairsprays have caused my hair to be coarse, dry and brittle. That constant use of deodorant has turned my armpits black. That crash diets only made me more overweight. That being fried under the sun with oils that guarantee tan year-round not only hastened the appearance of facial blemishes but also increased my risks of skin cancer! It seemed that in trying to correct my flaws, I have succeeded in making myself more defective.

     Then, it dawned on me. Loveliness is a damned-if-you-damned-if-you-don’t situation. It is an inescapable predicament of every breathing thinking feeling female on this planet obsessed with good looks.

     Isn’t it curious that more than any other species, it’s the girls that society expects to be physically attractive? And more often than not, we are measured against ludicrous and foreign beauty standards that are quite impossible to attain – payat, maputi, matangos ilong, mahaba at hindi tumitikwas na buhok. The very few who are already these things somehow still feel inadequate. Why is this?   

     My sociology books offer various explanations, but I didn’t have to read up to get some answers. I only had to take notice of the images of perfection on the boob tube or on those huge highway billboards that assail us everyday. With incessant pressure to look better, no wonder we feel we are never enough!

     I started on a journey of deeper reflection and re-examined my values, beliefs and self-perceptions. I would stand naked in front of the mirror and train myself to like my body for what it is – bumps, curves and hair growths. Removing any pre-conceived notion of what ought to be beautiful, I was able to open up and receive what I was seeing. The longer I looked, the more I liked. Soon I realized I didn’t need to work on being beautiful. I already am. Always haven been.

     Acceptance. That was the key that reminded me na sa totoo lang, gorgeous pala ako. This coming to terms with my body has made me more confident and able to relate freely with various people.

     Last year, a business trip to Germany made me realize a few other things. We’ve always heard people say that foreign cultures find Pinay looks alluring. Friends and relatives living abroad have pushed me into migrating saying my dark looks would be a hit there. With all this talk, I wasn’t surprised of the admiring and fascinated looks thrown my way.

     But much as I am happy about being Filipino, I also worry about the tendency of the West (and maybe even Pinoys themselves) to romanticize the Pinay and carve her out as a simple-minded, unassuming, exotic creature. I was therefore delighted when Niklas, my good old German friend, told me how pleased he was that I somehow shattered some of his friends’ notions that Asian women were shy and timid.

     Yet, all I did was allow myself to be – to interact openly, to ask seemingly stupid questions, to both marvel and be revolted by grandeur and lavishness, to weep at the sight and stories of the unemployed, to tease in a sarcastic yet good-natured way, and to laugh boisterously.

     “We will miss your laughter”, they said on my last night. I was floored. These people whom I had just met found my laughter remarkable they said they’ll always remember me for it. As I regard my laugh as the best expression of my wit, sensibility, passion, and humanity, I couldn’t think of a more gratifying compliment.

     In my laughter, these foreigners saw the totality of my being. They appreciated what was real about me. I needed no further affirmation. I never felt more gorgeous.

(This was written for a column in a local women’s glossy).

"Kuting kuting.

Dala gitara.

Libot-libot sa balay ni Myrna.

Ahay, Myrna gawa-gawaha

si Rhoda naga-harana."

wehehehehhehehehehehehehe

I remember taunting Mernalot with this song as we waited evermore for a cab ride from UP naming mahal na Campus to UP naming mahal na Village.   

Freudian slip perhaps. Usually have those. Suddenly, would break into a tune, a line from a song that is revealing of either momentary sentiments, much-guarded emotional secrets,  or plain unspeakable evil thoughts.

"Kuting kuting, dalara gitara……..si Rhoda naga-harana."

hehehehehe.

I am besotted, smitten by Myrns dearest.

"Ma, saan ka nanggaling? Saan ka ginawa?".

As in. Mader is the funniest video alive.

You wish she could be reproduced.

Hmmm, that’s why maybe i do.

That’s why i am.

ahahhahahahhaha.

i love myself. :)))))

1) am now kulot. happily kulot. one saturday i woke up rearing to have my hair permed, something i’d been thinking of doing months ago. i quickly got my finances together and was prepared to spend a few thousands for a new look. figured that for the past two years, i haven’t spent on clothes, shoes or anything material that would improve my appearance. with a guilt-free conscience and a working budget till january 2007, i trotted off to the neigborhood salon. voila! hair stylist told me perm would only cost some hundred bucks! my veins leapt with joy. yahooray!! hahahha. now have extra money! and so it happened that my feet also luxuriated in some scrubbing and my nails professionally cared for. and that a few days later, my neglected and sore muscles and joints were treated to a spa. i ached and nearly wept for my body, the temple of my soul.

2) watching eve ensler’s "the good body" staged by monique wilson’s new voice company was a last minute decision. was i happy for being fickle! body is very much a part of being human. woman’s relationship with her body may sometimes be even more challenging that her intimate relationships. maybe so because it’s the most intimate physical relation one can have. the body is a psychological blueprint. or our biography, as carolyn myss would say. therein is stored our traumas, stresses, frustrations, fears, pains, wishes, aspirations - molded or generated by our experiences with family, mother, father,  peers, and lovers within the larger social structure and its cultural (de)valuations.         

3) ayay! plane fare rates are jacked up for x’mas. no promos. loolaloo. so super ferry ang biyahe ko. sakay na!

Discovered David Deida and loving him. His spirit resonates in mine. Feel he knows me (if not women in general as he claims).

There’s an article in PCIJ that makes blogging sound like a super duper self-indulgent thing.

In this case, it is.

And I don’t find anything wrong.

It’s not as if bloggers don’t care for social/political/spiritual activism. 

Roomie Deedee and I have taken to early morning briskwalks at the QC Memorial Circle. We’ve been getting up early and sweating it out for a week now.

Today, there was a group of teenagers in platoon formation, a bunch of seniors unblocking energy channels through tai-chi, joggers in synch with the rhythm of their heartbeats, and many others engaged in various activities or simply hanging around the vast concrete and forest of QC’s round flat world.

With the sound system blaring and freedom in the air, Dee and I found ourselves marching (aerobic-style) in unison towards one of the tents that were obviously meant for weirdos like us. The groove of mega-pop music got to us and soon we were dancing.

By ourselves.

A sweet, safe but seeing distance away from all others, we sashayed and shook it! Salsa, disco, hip-hop, cha-cha, swing – we almost covered everything.

We were giggling and laughing, too – because it seemed so silly, and so..right. Hahaha!

Then we did our stretches amidst Charito Planas’ plants (it seemed hers coz she had her name there).

Later, as we walked again and followed what we called the “forest trail”, we started singing. Dee appeared to be in the mood for diva songs as we began our repertoire with Barry and Arvie’s videoke favorites “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and “Never Been to Me”, followed by Boojie’s pet song “MacArthur’s Park”.

(Incidentally, Barry, Arvie, and Boojie are our brilliant, talented, Dungeons and Dragons- enthusiast, heterosexual male friends that appreciate songs that say: “I’m a discontented mother and a regimented wife” or “Someone left the cake out in the rain, and I don’t think that I can make it, coz it took so long to bake it, and I’ll never have that recipe agaaaaiinnn….Oh Nooooooo!)

Musical hits came next: Les Miserables’ On My Own, Phantom of the Opera’s All I Ask of You, and Miss Saigon’s Last night I watched him sleeping my body pressed to him and then he started speaking the name I heard him speak was Kim (sorry, forgot title).

At this point, we were not only singing and walking, we were also riding those sad sad emotions. Buhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhu…..

Baliw.

We call ourselves the tri-performers.

Watch out triathletes!

    Last night, I was at a watering hole in the neighborhood with two male pals who were both nearly past the age of youth (heard somewhere that the youth are those below 45). There was a band playing, the tables were animated, and some folks appeared to be jostling even their own company.

    A bunch of young adults were obviously drunk or just deliberately oblivious to  the loud bellows of their male friend. Their guy was barking, like a dog afflicted with madcow. Addressing no one in particular but yelling so loud he seems determined not to have any single breathing living thing miss out on the target of his ire. Ateneo! Ateneo! Wala yang Ateneo!He would pause, mutter something about the UAAP then resume his disparaging cheer.

    I think in his sober and best moments, this guy would be more adept at heckling. But last night, he was undeniably irritating and disturbing the peaceful noise of the bar. I would not have been surprised if someone from the kitchen banged his head with the cheapest pan.

    This guy’s sour-graping rants probably changed some people’s minds about Ateneo. Contrary to his intended effect, Mr. Put-Down might have unwillfully earned the customers’ respect and admiration for his much-abhorred institution. Heck, if I weren’t from UP, I would have been convinced that Ateneo was the undisputed best university.

    He must really despise that school. Or just hates his guts more. And that in his loud screaming, he was simply wishing his innards would disentangle and crawl out of his mouth.

    In this rowdy atmosphere, there I was sat in a table with the two mild-mannered middle-aged men. We witnessed the unruly behavior but remain unruffled — so intent were we in solving Sudoku puzzles.

    Yes, there’s such an addiction. (Though, I don’t think many geeks dared exhibit such penchant in public places, much less a bar!)

     In some occassions, this addiction serves a purpose. For example, it makes an eight-hour meeting more bearable, even mildly exciting. It sharpens the mind too. As our boss realized during our staff meeting two days ago. She said nothing about our bent heads. She could see that our brains were working since we would snap up and speak out jazzy ideas at the most opportune moment. As we again buried our noses and strained our eyes pondering Sudoku’s numbers, we were ever-aware and engaged in the flow of the discussion. Multi-lateral thinking. Ohh lala. Indeed, Sudoku trains for multidimensional mental analysis and it has already made an impact in our work.

    And in my social life. Last night, in the midst of the the heckler’s ruckus, we were soothed by Sudoku. We were unfazed. We were cool. For four long hours. Until nearly everyone has left. Still, we were there. Quiet, poised still. Rigidly still.

    We couldn’t leave. We were stuck. In our chairs.      

    Pakshet, ang hirap!

    We may not have been disturbed by other people’s aberrant behavior, but in the deepest recesses of our minds, we were troubled.

    Agitated. Frustrated. Pero hindi.

    Hindi kami susuko sa Sudoku.  Hindi….

    Sudoku..suko.. hinde..hin-deh..

    HIIINNDEEHHH!

    Oh lalala, chisbumba!

    Welcome Me to this other blog, where I get to re-invent myself.

    Or perhaps just indulge my more spontaneous, petty (in Ilonggo: labay-labay), pretentious (yes, so i have this excuse for the things i write: this is not who i am!), egocentric, attention-hungry, sarcastic, bitchy (words get redundant from here), lunatic (being Cancer and governed by the moon, i hope to wax lyrical, er, LUNAtical) personality. (Let’s wait out the other PERSONA-litieso that will emerge).

    First, this blog’s title. Obviously, it’s a pun from Scott Peck’s book - "A Road Less Travelled".  I’ve read a few chapters, and found his psychological take on love (as mi amiga Viola would say) "sound". But now and then, I change my mind.

    So, the choice for the title does not really have much to do with Peck’s ideas and beliefs. Nor does it insinuate that am taking that path less traversed. It just fits the name I’ve come to luuvvv. (Yes, yes, I love yah!)

    Literally.

    THE - because pals, perhaps in their fascination and assimilation of the ways and lingo of the repapips who smoke garil-yosi in the 70s and 80s call me da-rods (dats me, da woman). ROAD - because most foreigners and all pinoys who choose to speak with the american twa-heng (!) refer to me as ROHWDa. ROSE - because the origin of my name is a Greek word for rose (or so says the book of names). TRAVELLED - because my surname is Spanish for "to travel" (and I was a gypsy in my past life).

    Very litera(l)-ry, indeed!Mwahahahah.

    I think am a genius! Ako’y isang henyo!Yahoo serious hooray!

    Alrighty, so much for this first entry.