Love in the time of SMS
January 29, 2006 | 12:00am
When I was 15, I found myself in a threesome. No, not the Tatum O’Neal and Melanie Griffith kind. It involved me, a boy and a phone. I know it still sounds dirty, but it’s really more pathetic. There I was at home, not leaving even for a quick 30-minute shopathon, waiting by the phone for the love of my life du jour to call. Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn’t. My days were characterized by his actions or omissions. Needless to say, my world was very small.
It was really easy to mistake desperation for love then. I mean, looking back at all the effort I put into each relationship, I’d never do that now. There were no cell phones, e-mail was still in its infancy, and it was only when I was jaded and wiser that pagers decided to pop up in the mainstream.
I officially had my first crush before I even went to school. I would pick up my older brother at his preschool and make myself extra pretty, all smeared in my mother’s James Cooper Magenta lipstick. My mom feared what would become of me with my pre-pre-pre-pubescent antics. Of course she was right: I had grown against her will to become the biggest flirt (unsuccessfully, though, as I seem to scare them all away) in denim hot pants.
My mojo seems to be most effective on Dirty Old Men who don’t get scared, unfortunately. The cute ones – well, I know they’re just trouble or a bore. So I’ve always fallen for the "characters" – you know, the guy who was meant to be just the supporting character but who ends up stealing the show. Anyway, like any child, my mojo went into hibernation mode like herpes for a couple of years. The outbreak was indeed a sore one.
The first guy who ever gave me flowers was some guy in my grade school. We were cast as lovers in a school play (which at that time meant the world to me – the play, that is, and developing an English accent by watching Merchant Ivory movies again and again). Anyway, he put a flower behind my ear and I whacked him like he had raped me. He called me a monster and I called him gay for even thinking about flowers. A small example of how I proceeded to scare men at an alarming rate. But when I got home, I started looking at the flower, I was at this odd time in my life, I felt Kirk Cameron was my soul mate and that Tom Cruise was really my father – both of whom did not know me. And here was this boy who I had never really liked, even as a friend (he threw a stapler at me once and I took it as a sign), who took the time to give me a flower amidst imminent humiliation. That’s when the bells and whistles started. I stopped hoping for Tom Cruise to come to Manila to pick me up and whisk me away to Hollywood. Instead I looked closer to home.
I began my career in love as a skank. I sort of stole my best friend’s boyfriend in high school. The mistress is a very overrated part to play, I realized early on. I still want to think it happened by accident. I was talking to him while my friend was dressing up, getting ready to go to Euphoria (I was a freshman and had a Euphoria card. Thanks, Dad). Anyway, he started getting shifty and a conniving friend of mine overheard our conversation. She went into the room where my friend was dressing up and turned on the speaker phone. "Listen to this," she hissed.
The guy told me he loved me and I kinda said, Yeah, me too. I was just thrilled someone liked me since all my friends were hot mutts (cross-bred vixens) and I was, well, just plain. Anyway, she heard all of this. I ran to the room to try to take back that sordid moment. She cried for a bit and so did I and oddly we ended up consoling each other. We then even decided to still go to Euphoria, with conniving friend in tow. Of course, the next day she refused to have anything to do with me. When my friend wouldn’t talk to me and sit with me for lunch, I decided my friend meant more than the guy. I swore to myself no more boy-stealing – it’s such a dirty job and even today all these man-stealers lead empty lives pretending to be afflicted with nymphomania.
Fresh from delivery from sin, I went wild for this other really cute guy. All the girls in my batch liked him and I couldn’t believe that every afternoon he would pick me up from school and have ice cream with me in the park. I mean, I was a harlot and now God gives me this? Something was up. Every afternoon he would show up smelling like Cool Water, which still gives me mixed emotions up to this day just because it reminded me of how pathetic I was or maybe because it really did smell odd.
My overexcitement scared him, I’m sure. Tangled English, biting the nails of both my hands and stupid philosophical observations were scattered everywhere in this budding romance. He was way beyond his years even then and dumped me in such a way I didn’t feel dumped at all. He was amazing; a template for every man. So anyway, we had one last ice cream date and I held my tears and profanity for later.
When I look back, there were only three things I really remember about that time: ice cream, the nervous breakdown that came from waiting for phone calls and thinking that he meant more to me than Kirk Cameron and Tom Cruise combined. I felt our non-breakup was the most tragic thing since Martial Law. I cried and ate soggy noodles and sang "our" songs‚ which he didn’t even know about. The first heartbreak always feels like the last. The end of everything. Like you’re gonna close up shop for good and just wither. Geez, we didn’t even kiss! But never in my life have I felt something so raw and new that it was scary.
Well, of course I got over it and proceeded to date boys who got expelled from school (a very potent aphrodisiac for me then) and drove noisy cars. And each thankfully never worked out, until I met my first boyfriend who ruined it for me for life. He was so nice that everyone who followed after him I thought should be as nice as him. But that’s another story.
Anyway, ending romances became a sport for me. Like baseball, the game had a definite beginning and an end. Even now, equipped with a history of more meaningful relationships and flings (hey, they could mean something, too: token older man, the best friend, etc.), nothing can beat the bottom-of-the-barrel heartbreak of my first non-love. I went through years of being in relationships thinking I should be in one. Each ended, making me a little more or less numb in the process. Gone are the days of waiting for phone calls. If he didn’t call I moved on to the next. I hated dating and I think for the longest time I kept on having boyfriends just so I didn’t have to date. In college I kissed a guy and I ended up crying in front of him because I kissed him and felt cheap because it wasn’t us‚ yet. Scare-a-guy tactic number two for you. Major limper there. Now, all these things that used to mean so much means very little, like the kissing and all.
I’m now in a relationship where there are no games and never for once was there a tension or delilah. This time I know I’m in it for the real reasons. And though I may never feel the same raw scrape of the first heartbreak (thank heavens for that), I know that after going this far and learning this much, it will take more than just soggy noodles to calm my nerves if this were to implode. Yes, maybe we grow up to be stronger, but sometimes there are certain things in life that still make you feel like a kid again, maybe even just for sentimental reasons. By the way, I totally hate Tom Cruise now.
It was really easy to mistake desperation for love then. I mean, looking back at all the effort I put into each relationship, I’d never do that now. There were no cell phones, e-mail was still in its infancy, and it was only when I was jaded and wiser that pagers decided to pop up in the mainstream.
I officially had my first crush before I even went to school. I would pick up my older brother at his preschool and make myself extra pretty, all smeared in my mother’s James Cooper Magenta lipstick. My mom feared what would become of me with my pre-pre-pre-pubescent antics. Of course she was right: I had grown against her will to become the biggest flirt (unsuccessfully, though, as I seem to scare them all away) in denim hot pants.
My mojo seems to be most effective on Dirty Old Men who don’t get scared, unfortunately. The cute ones – well, I know they’re just trouble or a bore. So I’ve always fallen for the "characters" – you know, the guy who was meant to be just the supporting character but who ends up stealing the show. Anyway, like any child, my mojo went into hibernation mode like herpes for a couple of years. The outbreak was indeed a sore one.
The first guy who ever gave me flowers was some guy in my grade school. We were cast as lovers in a school play (which at that time meant the world to me – the play, that is, and developing an English accent by watching Merchant Ivory movies again and again). Anyway, he put a flower behind my ear and I whacked him like he had raped me. He called me a monster and I called him gay for even thinking about flowers. A small example of how I proceeded to scare men at an alarming rate. But when I got home, I started looking at the flower, I was at this odd time in my life, I felt Kirk Cameron was my soul mate and that Tom Cruise was really my father – both of whom did not know me. And here was this boy who I had never really liked, even as a friend (he threw a stapler at me once and I took it as a sign), who took the time to give me a flower amidst imminent humiliation. That’s when the bells and whistles started. I stopped hoping for Tom Cruise to come to Manila to pick me up and whisk me away to Hollywood. Instead I looked closer to home.
I began my career in love as a skank. I sort of stole my best friend’s boyfriend in high school. The mistress is a very overrated part to play, I realized early on. I still want to think it happened by accident. I was talking to him while my friend was dressing up, getting ready to go to Euphoria (I was a freshman and had a Euphoria card. Thanks, Dad). Anyway, he started getting shifty and a conniving friend of mine overheard our conversation. She went into the room where my friend was dressing up and turned on the speaker phone. "Listen to this," she hissed.
The guy told me he loved me and I kinda said, Yeah, me too. I was just thrilled someone liked me since all my friends were hot mutts (cross-bred vixens) and I was, well, just plain. Anyway, she heard all of this. I ran to the room to try to take back that sordid moment. She cried for a bit and so did I and oddly we ended up consoling each other. We then even decided to still go to Euphoria, with conniving friend in tow. Of course, the next day she refused to have anything to do with me. When my friend wouldn’t talk to me and sit with me for lunch, I decided my friend meant more than the guy. I swore to myself no more boy-stealing – it’s such a dirty job and even today all these man-stealers lead empty lives pretending to be afflicted with nymphomania.
Fresh from delivery from sin, I went wild for this other really cute guy. All the girls in my batch liked him and I couldn’t believe that every afternoon he would pick me up from school and have ice cream with me in the park. I mean, I was a harlot and now God gives me this? Something was up. Every afternoon he would show up smelling like Cool Water, which still gives me mixed emotions up to this day just because it reminded me of how pathetic I was or maybe because it really did smell odd.
My overexcitement scared him, I’m sure. Tangled English, biting the nails of both my hands and stupid philosophical observations were scattered everywhere in this budding romance. He was way beyond his years even then and dumped me in such a way I didn’t feel dumped at all. He was amazing; a template for every man. So anyway, we had one last ice cream date and I held my tears and profanity for later.
When I look back, there were only three things I really remember about that time: ice cream, the nervous breakdown that came from waiting for phone calls and thinking that he meant more to me than Kirk Cameron and Tom Cruise combined. I felt our non-breakup was the most tragic thing since Martial Law. I cried and ate soggy noodles and sang "our" songs‚ which he didn’t even know about. The first heartbreak always feels like the last. The end of everything. Like you’re gonna close up shop for good and just wither. Geez, we didn’t even kiss! But never in my life have I felt something so raw and new that it was scary.
Well, of course I got over it and proceeded to date boys who got expelled from school (a very potent aphrodisiac for me then) and drove noisy cars. And each thankfully never worked out, until I met my first boyfriend who ruined it for me for life. He was so nice that everyone who followed after him I thought should be as nice as him. But that’s another story.
Anyway, ending romances became a sport for me. Like baseball, the game had a definite beginning and an end. Even now, equipped with a history of more meaningful relationships and flings (hey, they could mean something, too: token older man, the best friend, etc.), nothing can beat the bottom-of-the-barrel heartbreak of my first non-love. I went through years of being in relationships thinking I should be in one. Each ended, making me a little more or less numb in the process. Gone are the days of waiting for phone calls. If he didn’t call I moved on to the next. I hated dating and I think for the longest time I kept on having boyfriends just so I didn’t have to date. In college I kissed a guy and I ended up crying in front of him because I kissed him and felt cheap because it wasn’t us‚ yet. Scare-a-guy tactic number two for you. Major limper there. Now, all these things that used to mean so much means very little, like the kissing and all.
I’m now in a relationship where there are no games and never for once was there a tension or delilah. This time I know I’m in it for the real reasons. And though I may never feel the same raw scrape of the first heartbreak (thank heavens for that), I know that after going this far and learning this much, it will take more than just soggy noodles to calm my nerves if this were to implode. Yes, maybe we grow up to be stronger, but sometimes there are certain things in life that still make you feel like a kid again, maybe even just for sentimental reasons. By the way, I totally hate Tom Cruise now.
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