Saturday, August 16, 2008
Those are a couple of lines from my favorite greeting card, which I actually have two- one from Keng and the other from someone else. The mere fact that in spite of a hundred other cards out there, two guys, of the same age, of the same world, who happened to be after the same girl, picked that same card said a lot about what’s written there. And until now, when I go back and read it again, I still believe every single word.
When I was in highschool, I wasn’t really the gutsy type. I was the predictable girl who followed every textbook theory there was, about life and the rest of it… until I fell in love.
Opening my doors to love at the tender age of 15 wasn’t really part of the plan. I promised myself I would never commit to anyone, unless I could see my future with him. Believe it or not, I was able to give my heart to someone and stay true to that promise.
So, does age really matter?
Well, for a lot of things, it sure does. But how about for love? Is there a right age? Or even an ideal one?
I don’t have the answer.
Now, I might say it doesn’t matter, and there’s none. For both the right and ideal part. Ask me again 2 decades from today, when I already have a teenager son/daughter, and my answer would probably differ.
You can drive at 16, go to war at 18, buy a drink at the age of 21 and retire at 65. So how old should you be before your love is real?- One Tree Hill
Like I said, I don’t know whether there is a significant relationship between age and love. What I do know is that love doesn’t exactly screen birth certificates or even check for a driver’s license or a voter’s ID. Love comes to you once. Whether you’re in highschool, in college or already out there in the real world, it won’t give a rat’s tail. Besides, trigonometry, philosophy or even a salary won’t help you deal it with. It’s love.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
My Crappy 2-page Resume
If that is so, crap, mine only reached 2 pages.
Some students may find that usual. I mean, how many conferences could a student be willing to attend in four years? How many organizations could you manage to be active in? How many awards could you attain in a land of god and goddesses?
Believe it or not, I know people who have at least 5 pages for their resumes. I felt shrinking by 4 feet when I read those sacred pages. I would totally appear like a slob when my resume stands beside theirs. So, as expected, I retreated to a shoulda-woulda-coulda- reflection that only made me feel worse.
Then, I asked myself, “What was I doing while they were managing their future? Where was I when all those conferences were held and those projects implemented?”.
In all those times, I had opted to manage my relationships, than mind my future. I know I don’t sound like the model student, but looking back, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A resume should be about honors, recognitions, conferences and positions. In that regard, I totally deserve the crappy 2- page one I have now. But all those missed extra- curricular activities, all those “stuffs” that should have filled another 2 pages for my resume, I missed them all for a walk-off-the–anger marathon with a friend who had a bad week, a trip to the salon with my best friend after a hellish sub-module, a 3-hour laugh trip with blockmates at Medrano and a long- awaited date with the boyfriend who had equally stressful days.
I missed things for others that, for me, are far more important. I know I cannot put “ a reliable friend and a loyal girlfriend” to lengthen my resume, but it makes me feel more worthy knowing that I have achievements that go way beyond what a document reflects- and I have people who would celebrate with me about all those written in there.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
More than a couple of times, I’ve found myself in between racks of greeting cards, in search for the one which contains the right words. However, lately, I’ve been skipping this whole card hunting thing. I got tired of going through the process of reading and comparing, of weighing which sounds more truthful and appropriate. I figured it would be best to just write my own. Besides, who else could translate into words his/ her emotions than him/herself, right?
Well, just like how Atty. Uribe would say it, it depends.
During my last card hunting trip, I encountered this “light bulb” moment. It wasn’t about something superb and amazing, really. That moment, I just thought I wanted to, and could, be a card writer.
I know not everyone, including probably half of the male population, is comfortable with writing letters. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have anything to say. More often than not, they just don’t know how to say it. So when an occasion strikes, they go to the nearest bookstore and let ready- made cards rescue them.
That is exactly what I want to do: rescue those who are out of words.
I want to be able to write how I feel, about love, friendship, encouragement and even grief. No, I wouldn’t be imagining situations and emotions. I will write from the heart, have those words printed on a beautifully designed card, and send it off hoping it would find its match.You know how a student’s eyes light up when they figure out the correct answer? That’s the kind of look I’m hoping for when people read my cards; that twinkle in your eyes when you found something that speaks to you, or more like, speaks FOR you
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Like My Parents...
All those times, as a kid, I gave out different answers to that perennial question. Even though my parents were both Engineers, I never considered that as an option, unlike my playmate who sounded dead sure of turning out as a doctor.
When I went off to College, I was surprised to meet a lot of people who reminded me of my playmate. Half of my blockmates have at least one CPA parent. Some even have CPA parents. I felt left- out because mine were both Engineers, who happen to know nothing about technicalities of debits and credits.
As terms passed, though, some blockmates (who have CPA parent/s), started shifting out. I thought, good thing I realized early on that I didn’t want to end up like my parents. Lucky me, I thought.
I thought, like most of the time, wrong.
I though I didn’t want to become an Engineer. On that part, I was right.
I though I didn’t want to become like my parents. That- is where I came wrong.
Everyone of us, I guess, had, at least at one point, thought of turning out like our parents. Who could blame us? They are, for the most part of our lives, our greatest influences.
Now I understand why kids take the path their parents took, why my playmate wanted to be a doctor. But if that’s so, why didn’t I end up in Engineering?
I guess I have the answer.
I didn’t end up, or even considered, taking Engineering, because I didn’t even know my parents were Engineers when I was just a kid. I never saw them bring office works at home. I never caught my dad staying up late to finish a report or a template. My mom never missed a PTA meeting because of a site inspection. When my parents are at home, when they are with my brother and me, they are just that: parents.
Now that I’m growing up, I know for a fact that I want to become like my mom. Like her, I will never allow my career (if I’ll have any) to interfere with my responsibilities at home. I will never allow my children to look at me and see a CPA/ Lawyer, more than a mother, more than their mom.
I love you, mom.
I love you, dad.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
These days, I’ve been avoiding something and it’s just now that I realize what it is.
Usually, when I start reading a book, I finish it in a couple of days. If I started on a weekend, I finish it over the night. It’s not that I rush getting through with it; I just find it difficult to close and put down a book after I’ve started page one.
However, with this particular book I’m reading, I can’t quite make myself finish it. No, the story’s not boring. And believe me, it deserves its best-seller label. Perhaps, I just don’t want to find out what happens in the end. I don’t want to know whether Peter Houghton was acquitted or jailed forever. I don’t want to find out if his mom was able to forgive herself. And, I’m not sure if I really want Josie’s secret revealed.
I know it sounds weird, but I always get affected by the characters in the books I read. It’s hard for me to be detached from the story. Most of the time, I find myself stopping at some lines and re-reading them over and over, as if trying to recall if there had been the same scenarios in my life or trying to picture them happening in my future.
What was Hitler’s mom like?
What would you have done?
What would make it all go back to normal?
Why my son?
Questions. These are questions of the characters in the story, and if you still hadn’t figured out, nobody ends up winning. In the plot, in a case where a teenager shoots other teenagers, everybody loses. Whether you’re the victim, the survivor, the murderer or the parents of those mentioned, you get through the experience with a scar. Some might be deeper than the others, but all the same, the scars will be there forever.
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