Unenthused existential shop manager

A customer complained about my snobby demeanor and demeaning haughty looks, according to a co-worker. The complaint was made last night and unfortunately I was not there to witness her anguish.

This is not new to me, and I do not feel sorry, only bemused. I suppose what she interpreted as antagonistic expression was merely a default poker face usually worn during disinterested times.

If I had the luxury of an acerbic reproach, I would have begged her not to give herself too much credit. Other than never seriously demeaning anyone, save for comic relief, I never give that ‘dagger looks’ look.

But then, she doesn’t have to know that my enthusiasm is as dry as the arid soils of Africa, and my previous superiors and employers can attest to that. Also, she doesn’t have to know that my idea of genuineness excludes staged graciousness. It is disinterest in times of disinterest, the rest are all pleasant, at least to me.

Like all other attention-starved emotional shopper, she was probably longing for the nauseating sugar loaded attention a shop manager could afford her. She was probably hoping for me to jump at her and offer anything that could establish our equality in the world of fashion.

Well, I don’t live in the world of fashion, my existentialism is swinging between the real world and a parallel universe.

Interview musings

I forgot to give the jeepney driver my 12-peso fare. I was deep in thought the whole ride; swimming in reverie of would-be interview episodes. In my busy-ness of reconstructing my future, like an automaton I stepped off at the last jeepney stop in SM City Cebu.

Imagining myself in job interviews make me feel like a fortune. I can almost feel the glory of getting hired and staring a new job, especially now when I am very near quitting my current employment. I give myself challenging questions, I answer brightly and smugly.

Oh, if only job-hunting would be as easy as I have it my day-dreams, I would quit this politicking called store management and move on a new field I fancy.

It’s just a fantasy, whoa!

I have a worldly fantasy. A man to mindlessly pay for my shopping and surprise me with lovely new clothes and accessories. He may also take me to expensive dinners and holiday trips. Oh how lovely!
Of course, I believe in self-sufficience, but who doesn’t like guilt-free spend-free new clothes.
But I will never get princess treatment from anyone. No man will ever be too macho to beat the handyman in me.
And if he can’t do more carpentry than I can, less likely for him to spend for me.

Smartie

There are very many things I am not confident to claim about myself. If I should list it down, it would make up my full being and that would make me feel depressed.

Despite my vanity, I am always battling with praise about my appearance. I secretly think I am beautiful all throughout, but I also secretly think I have zero aesthetic and physical market value.

Secretly, I believe and doubt that I possess innate impeccable style.

I am also unsure where I stand in the circle of my friends.

These thoughts prevent me from arguing, asserting and taking liberties, lest I hear the dreaded so-called truth.

There is one thing though, which I am very confident no one will stand to contest about. That is I am very smart.

I am that kind of smartie who fits anywhere and shuts up when everyone else starts showing off and talking shop.

Oh, and another, I make a very good comic. For a girl who has bland taste (literaly), I make laughter a daily treat.

Five minutes.

The first time I realized the actual length of a minute was during a skating game with my eldest brother.

 I don’t remember if I was eight then, but it was definitely during the popularity of roller skates. We each had our own pair of in-line skates, which I heard, was better and more modern , than the usual roller skates.

My brother and I gave each other a minute to show-off our skating moves. He went first and I was getting impatient because he seemed to take long. I complained and he replied to look at our stopwatch which we used to time ourselves. True enough, he only took a minute.

I though then, “oh. that’s how long a minute is? I thought a minute is just a minute. As quick as you say it.”

Twelve years later, in my first week in the call center, I discovered how long seconds can take.

I was itching to log-out and hoping for the dial to drop my time and there was only a few seconds left and I don’t want to get a call in my last second.

The seconds, I found out, also mattered in time keeping, especially when I’m running late.

Now, I left Ronald in Manila with a promise to return in six months. A month has flown by quickly, but looking ahead, the five months seem very far away.

Once a fat girl, a always a fat girl

Six inches off and forty pounds less later, I look in the mirror and still see my old self three years ago. No amount of encouragement and positivity will ever make me see my actual present image.

In my book, it’s called image distortion disorder. I will always find and magnify the ripples on my arms, the bulge on my tummy and the dimples on my thigh. From size 10 to a mere size 2, I will always believe that I’m bigger than the rest of the girls.

I religiously followed my weight loss scheme and made a lifestyle out of it. But I will never see, with confidence, the change I have done with myself. I will only hear about it, when people tell me so, but I will listen with a bit of reluctance.

It is not out of choice, it is more of an occupational hazard of having to live with the image all my life. Hypnotism will probably help to open my mind and let me see what other people do.

Magazine

For someone who claims to be extremely stylish, with an employment in the fashion mecca to boot, I seriously avoid fashion magazines. Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, Preview, Mega, Seventeen and other locally published magazines make me self-image sick.

These magazines  leave me with a stabbing heartache and a lump in my throat. I always feel less important, insecure and incompetent. The sustainable world which I built around myself crumbles in the face of a perfect cosmos which revolves around the material heavy media.

Their campaign for female emancipation have reached me in a different context. In my parallel universe, I make my own rules, I am the best, I am the only one who feels the pea under twelve mattresses, and as Alana Davis puts it, I am whom everyone harbors a secret hatred.

Fashion magazines tell me I’m not who I think I am, because if I were indeed, I should be on the cover, not her. Their  success and real-life articles are too good to be true. If  it were based on real women, why haven’t I met anyone who has been surveyed, or interviewed for any of their sources. Why? I am a real woman, I live in the real world and I have real people friends. Why do their self-help articles seem impossible for someone who don’t know anyone above middle-class.

In Wonder Spot, Melissa Banks describes a life of not fitting anywhere. That is precisely where the local media has put me, nowhere in the face of the glamorous world.

Christmas costume wars

Our company Christmas party had a ‘masquerade’ theme. In order for me to redeem my last year’s boo-hoo–because I mindlessly dressed myself as Gwen Stefani and ended up looking like a futuristic tranny-granny–I did everything in my power to look smashingly beautiful.

In fact, my adrenalin was the only thing keeping me together until my whole outfit was completed. I say so, because the day I decided everything from head to foot was ready, I got sick. It made me think that my energy and sugar levels have probably plummeted when my brain sent signals to the rest of me that all is well in the costume department.

I went as a vintage princess a la western. Donned knee-high leather boots, velvet cowgirl skirt, leather corset, mismatched vintage accessories, tiara and my harlequin mask.

My goal was a major success. Ninety-nine percent of my pictures were all pleasant. I redeemed myself! Yes!

It did not hurt so much that I was not crowned the best dressed that night, though, I expected that such would totally kill my vanity.

yes, I was a tranny-granny gwen

redeemed by the vintage princess

Shoes Blues

Before I was a footwear addicted shopaholic, I had a hate-hate relationship with shoes. My growing up years were plagued with ill-fitting footwear. Whether they were hand-me-downs or brand new, I always seem to miss the size.

And missing the size meant blisters and uncomfortable unsightly callouses. Not to mention awkward mix match with whatever I wore.

But that was then. My sense of style is not directly proportional to my purchasing power; and so is my propensity to buy. So I satisfied myself with whatever I and my Mom have.

I remember the awful migraine that went with footaches. I now surmise that the slip-on oxfords which were two sizes small were hitting my pedi-pressure points.

At present, I am absolutely into footwear. Lucky enough to buy my own, no more hand-me downs, only missing a size in one pair out of ten.

Bingo!

Ronald and I played Bingo Friday night for the first time. I have been prodding him for weeks to join me; it had an interesting appeal and I was hoping to win.

It was apparent that we were clueless, we didn’t know where to buy the cards and when we got the cards, we didn’t have anything to mark it with. So I tore the numbers which were called. I probably looked like a loser so Ronald asked the woman beside him if he could borrow one of her four markers. She pointedly said “No” and mentioned that she paid for those. How cruel. I suppose that woman has made a living out of BIngo. Her table was filled with cards and did I say four markers?

So we bought a marker and Bingo became more fun. I had gut feelings of winning, and I had to believe myself, then suddenly, someone screams “Bingo!” Darn.

We played four games, three were black-out and the last was an inverted hourglass. Ronald and I argued during the last game because he marked the boxes even before it was called out. I was fuming because it was unnecessary. He reasoned that when everything is marked then it means we’ve won. It’s not as complicated, but it was all the same unnecessary.

We left with 285pesos less in our pockets, no win and both angered. We made peace at the supermarket and bought food to eat at home instead. Next time, we’ll bring our own markers and play our separate games.