Wednesday, January 19, 2005
9:15 AM |
Little Jack Horner sat on the corner sucking his thumb, la la la...
I sing, ridiculously, for my headache. It is like a vicious vacuum pump in your proverbial pits of despair. The truth is, when you're in your late twenties (and, cringingly, almost middle age), life's a headache trip (some parts of it, anyway), and then you do what the rest of the natives do: you go out and have a wild night of cholesterol delight at Golden Roy's. It is a Wednesday morning. I think I'm drunk on caffeine.
Half of what I say in the early morning is mostly gibberish to me. (At least, that's what my brother told me. He said he asked me once if I was going to the prom in my high school senior year and I allegedly replied: "As surely as the pigs fly, my trusty Scotty will beam me up" -- then proceeded to brush my teeth.)
I reluctantly look at my reflection in the mirror and could only echo Irving Wallace's cry, What a ruthless biographer the human face is!
Twenty-nine years of twentysomething boredom, and then the fruitless spoils of adult battles etched in every pimple scar, in every minute tinge of my red-blotched eyes. The bathroom mirror does not deny the puffy red eyes that could have only seen late nights driving summer moons away with gin-soaked poetry and guitar songs. Ashen face. Stubbled chin. Unshampooed hair. Swollen lips. When I look at myself in the mirror, what do I see? I see Wes Craven's new nightmare.
Perhaps I should never have drunk a cup of cappuccino after having drunk more than a good share of supposedly thirst-quenching GatorAde -- grape flavor, of course; the others give me constipation. In the first place I never normally wake up so early in the morning whenever I go to bed at one-thirty past midnight, no thanks to exam cram-time, and old reruns of Jerry Seinfeld
, my funny guy, whose comic eccentricities airs just a little too late on cable. It's part of my self-prescribed television therapy: treating myself to some boob-tube paranoid madness so that I could contrast my existence and be able to say, hey!
, that Kramer is so much more weird than I. And George's neurosis is more stupidly laughable! It actually helps my fledgling ego, and I actually feel good.
As usual, I dread the thought of having to meet the 5 o'clock dawn mark and forcibly sweat myself through a round of relatively exhausting sit-ups, an activity I consider my halfhearted salute to fitness. My friends call it "exercise" -- quite acceptable if one stretches the truth a little bit. I rather prefer meeting the morning cool wrapped in my blanket. Sleep do take on a sweet face when you're in bed and the cool is just lifting. I prefer that than having to go through some Jane Fonda obsession. (Personally, I think she's in denial. You know when you get that old, you're last leading man is tottering in senility, and everything else with an anatomical antecedent attached to it are going south, you start thinking that with all the money and fame you have, you'd at least be able to own a piece of pipeline to the Fountain of Youth.)
I exercise because it is unfortunate that my belly girth tells me otherwise. So I endure the belly cramps of doing sit-ups till, umm
, a hundred, as well as the glycogen-lack-induced pain in my thigh, abdominals, and gastrocnemius -- all to achieve that small hope that my pathetic frame would soon resemble Usher's.
That's the whole problem of keeping fit. The idea was probably dominant when the gods handed out cliches; you know, "No pain, No gain." Schmuck.
In this age when everything is button-fed and instantaneous, at least you'd expect that there should be some machine that guarantees Adonic abs and pecs in few easy details. You know, somewhat like instant coffee. The real problem is that we've been fooled for too long believing in the myth of Fabio and Tyra Banks. I read GQ
and all the male specimens are lean and bulging. I see a movie and all the dirty old men sport a well-maintained beer-belly. I look in the mirror and cry "Have mercy!" My belly have the makings of a Bayani Agbayani. When I feel like it, I go on a "strict" diet that shuns Coke, fat, and casual junk. It usually lasts for a week -- and then my craving starts. (Dan tells me I glorify my laziness to keep trim on debatable philosophical grounds. But what does he know? He resembles King Kong's cousin and his best friend is the refrigerator.)
From somewhere, a clock chimes. Six o'clock in the morning, and I am still staring at the godforsaken mirror. I make a compromise decision and figure the mirror probably lies. It is much too square, and besides bathroom light is not cosmetic.
I lay down, weary, on linen moltings and wish I am dreaming. Six o'clock dreams are particularly sexy. I like the recurring one when you're walking down Perdices Street and you're naked and nobody gives a damn. My cousin's pre-menopausal shrink-wife thinks my dreams are disturbingly Freudian. "Freud is the
psychological god," I retorted -- never knowing why. I think I was just so damned bored.
I turn on the TV. The Simple Life
is on replay on ETC. Seen it. McEwan and Zelwegger are making out in 50's mode on HBO. Boring hormones. Oprah holds court with her audience of New Age wannabes. Click. Hollywood Squares
's has-been pack is on the go. Click. The news. There's that anchor on CNN with the funny accent saying a toothy good morning and then "five children were murdered last by their mother who said she was following the voice of God." God. I need to think.
And this is what I think: I think I need a facial and a massage. I think Janet Jackson should show her nipples more often. I think that Juliana Palermo should retire from making movies and become a Boyoyong clown. I think Sharon Cuneta is really dead and that's her doppleganger we see on TV. I think that the next time I hear another Jessica or Ashley Simpson tune, I'll be ready for my destiny with nirvana. I think I need to reorganize my priorities and really concentrate on living a life (clap clap clap)
. I need food. I need sleep. I need to get outta here.
Yup. Time's up. For now.*The martini is film lingo for the last shot of the day.
 This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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