Supersalve

Healing comes in many forms. There is the kind of recovery one gets from the hospital, stitches carefully sewn, medicines meticulously prescribed, all to address the body's aches and pains. Prayer to me is a given, as I've already witnessed countless miracles in my lifetime and I'm inclined to say that my faith in the Lord is steadfast and I pray for it to only get stronger as I get older.

And then there is the kind of emotional salve by which to this day I am continually amazed for its cathartic properties. Years ago, I picked up from one of my early editors the idea of writing to a person who has caused you hurt and wounded your being. She had, at the time, penned all her woes to an ex who cheated on her.

What initially baffled me about this process was that it entailed writing an elaborate letter and NOT sending it. Over the years, I would read articles left and right touting this method of dealing with one's anger and resentment towards another.

A few nights ago, I tossed and turned, and like an unwelcome ghost, was haunted once again by feelings of hurt and frustration borne out of an experience in New York involving some people (barely friends) saying scathing things about me. What angered and struck me the most, was the ignorance and malignancy of the rumors, directed to someone who has kept a clean reputation all these years.

I sat up and wrote an email, hoping to finally clear the air out and have one less aggravator to attribute the L.A.N.Y.s to.

I saved the file intending to send it in the morning, and then slept on it. The next day, it wasn't until mid-afternoon that it occurred to me that I hadn't sent the email yet. And I actually no longer felt the need to because I already felt better. It dawned on me, again, the miraculous qualities of writing and "simmering"—essentially letting go and moving on.

I'm alive!!!

Hi everyone! Here's a quick update (while an unfinished blog entry is simmering in the backburner). My good friend and Neighbor, The Beauty Writer, left a comment in the previous post saying I should update because my readers are worried. Sorry guys! And thanks so much for all who showed their concern :) I got out of the hospital safe and sound, a little squeamish, but alive nonetheless. I can now truly say that I will never ever get breast implants or any form of cosmetic surgery involving scalpels and intravenous medication. It's an exaggeration to say that I am hospital-averse, but I am not kidding: not counting reconstructive surgery in tragic situations, I see no reason why women should willingly, for the sake of vanity, subject themselves to all the poking, prodding, injecting, IV-ing... aghh! So, I am simply thankful and happy that I survived the operating room. I'm now just waiting for the results of the biopsies on the L.A.N.Y.'s so watch this space please and thank you so much in advance for all the prayers and well-wishes!

UPDATE 06/03/09: The L.A.N.Y.'s are benign! Thank you, Lord! :) Also, I recently found out that soy is considered a phytoestrogen (or a plant estrogen) known to mimic the qualities of the human hormone. Breast lumps, in theory, are considered to be the byproduct of high levels of estrogen in women. I only started eating bags of edamame in New York, so that could have been a factor, and stress, another. If you have a copy of this month's U.S. Men's Health, an article there (sorry, I forget the name and page) explains the effects of too much soy in grown men. But I'm sure a quick Google on "soy" will give you all pertinent information.

The Blogger is In

So tomorrow I'm doing the whole Grey's Anatomy/House/Scrubs thing by having two of the lumps found on my chest removed. This feels like TMI (too much info) in some sense, but I feel like writing a blog post before going under the knife.

I have confidence in my doctor and am steadfast in my faith in God so I'm not that worried. But I also can't help but entertain morbid thoughts about death, of all things. Maybe because of the phone call I got earlier today from my cousin's husband—a practicing neurosurgeon—genially warning me about the risks of general anesthesia, being intubated, and so forth.

That aside, I am truly inclined to call these lady lumps Little Angry New Yorkers. Seriously! In the last eight or nine years that I'd been regularly going to the doctor for annual checkups (a few skips along the way), it was only when I'd spent almost two years abroad and living in New York that I'd grown cysts. Is it the water? Is it the peeling paint in the prewar buildings? I'm told that there is no known cause for breast lumps.

Going back to my thoughts on dying, I can say that I'm not afraid at all. I'm just sad if it were to happen because it would be a terrible thing to leave my fiancé. Yesterday, was our fourth year and eighth month anniversary. In September we turn five. In February we're getting married. And hopefully we get to honeymoon in England. There is so much to look forward to!

Yet, if I were to pass away on the operating table, as if mimicking a perturbing episode of House, I actually feel fulfilled at this point. I can truly say that I am happy, I feel love and feel loved, I have a comfortable amount of debt that can be paid in mere weeks, the people I love are more or less healthy and living comfortably, I've enjoyed many happy weekends with Alvs, going to Sunday market, hearing mass, grocery shopping, laughing at our cute fat dog, going around Greenhills spotting gadgets and trinkets. The dinners, the lazy days, the desserts. I really am in a happy place.

As for work, I also feel like I've hit an equilibrium in terms of what I've done and what I want to do with my career. I've enjoyed working from home and penning pet projects that are now in the hands of capable managers. I feel like I've done my work, and I carry with me wonderful memories and hilarious anecdotes from a nine-year career in many branches of beauty, fashion, and publishing.

And if I survive tomorrow, I'll even let you in on some secrets and share tidbits on the Little Angry New Yorkers. Ultimately—literally and figuratively—finally get them off my chest :)

Coffee Chameleon

A whole latté love.

I woke up suddenly remembering this story from a couple of years back.

I'd befriended a guy at work and for the sake of anonymity, let's just call him Mark. I was 23 at the time and he was probably about 30. I was starting on full-force with my work in the magazine, going on trips abroad and running on caffeine, Starbucks pastries, and takeout. He was the resident cute guy from the Web department.

Mark was close to our group of gangly girls. We all took afternoon coffee breaks together, driving to the nearest cafe, taking turns on whose car to bring. It was usually his car because it was so cute and curious (like its owner) it even merited its own nickname.

Friends would joke about how crushable he was, and I was quick to notice this. After some time, our little 'coffee group' of five dwindled to just two: me and him.

The first time he text-messaged, "How about a coffee run?" I felt so giddy and delighted. "Me! Just me!" I thought, and I immediately told a friend who was out in a junket in Hong Kong. If she were in town, we would have laughed and laughed about the whole situation.

You see, Mark had a girlfriend.

In our futile early-twenties, a situation like this merited humor and drama. The drama part is all too real, and the humor bit is just cruel—and infantile, because nothing about cheating is funny.

Naive (and perhaps stubborn) as I was, the coffee break turned into early breakfast, an afternoon mall trip, and one late-night drive, with him showing me the part of town where he grew up in. Each 'meeting' was careful and calculated. There was nothing physical about it so in all honesty and innocence on my part, it felt safe. I wasn't doing anything wrong. And he also probably thought his relationship was not threatened.

Until an editor friend cornered me and said it plain and simple: "A guy like Mark would never cheat blatantly. He won't do anything as much (and stupid) as kiss you, and then break up with his girlfriend, not even close. In fact, your presence will even make him less inclined to break up with her."

I was stunned. Who would've thought that innocent coffee runs served as a prelude to emotional cheating, and cheating, nevertheless? I'd never been in a situation like that before because back then I was just fresh out of a three-year relationship with my first boyfriend. Clueless, I really was.

So immediately, the flirtation stopped. No more impromptu trips to Starbucks, no more hanging out by the car, reminding its owner how cute it was (just the car, but yeah right), and definitely no more driving in the dark.

Karma is quick, just, and sometimes cruel, always on the side of what's fair and right. That same year, I'd experienced heartbreak in many forms. I'm not saying all of what I went through that year stemmed from that particular situation, but it was a determining point and an important lesson: Never mess with what's not yours, even if it's something seemingly as innocent as breakfast.

Image courtesy of http://moneyning.com.

Time and Type

As a disclaimer, let me just say that in the past and whenever required, I am out the door in minutes, prompt as any early bird. I've done this during shoots with call times at daybreak as an editor, and with weddings I'd worked on as a makeup artist.

But I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I am slow to move in the morning, and that it takes a ludicrous amount of preening and preparation to get me out the door. And no, it's not even the kind of vain primping one would expect from someone who worked in a magazine for many years. Let me explain...

At seven a.m., I am awake—but not up. There's that 30 to 45-minute 'defrost' when I turn off the AC and linger in bed and wait to come to my senses. And then there's that quick fix-up in the kitchen, dealing with dishes left the night before and tidying up around (so there's never any major cleaning on weekends, which are generally reserved for Tech-free R&R with my fiancé, whom I'm still trying to convince to go Tech-free on weekends as I write this).

And then there's the languid time I spend in the bathroom, usually with a magazine I'd recently bought. This week it's this month's Allure with Blake Lively on the cover. I continue to read throughout breakfast and finally am awake, alert, or panicked enough to get in the shower.

Dressing up is actually the easy part. Every night I more or less have a pulse of what I would like to wear the next day. And if I don't, over the past year I've been able to streamline my clothing and edit out pieces so it's quite a breeze these days to get dressed. Plus, it helps that I'm still on vacation (sort of) and my clothes are neatly stashed—and therefore "streamlined"—in two suitcases.

Makeup is an on-and-off thing for me (like John Mayer and Jennifer Aniston). Since beauty and grooming are pretty much ingrained in my lifestyle and career of choice, I am inclined to wear either a lot of it—concealer, powder, blush, mascara and all—or absolutely none, depending on the occasion or my mode of transport for the day. Lately, I've been veering more and more towards 'none.' (Makeup, sweat, and trains don't go together.)

In an ideal world, at seven a.m., I would be darting from the bed to the desk, armed with fresh thoughts and ideas for the day's writing and editing tasks. But I find that any bravado I feel early in the morning is diffused by the 'defrost.'

But all is not lost in my slowpoke-ness, for lack of a better word. I know friends and former colleagues who don't normally see the sunrise, but are quick to burn the midnight oil. These people write books, run magazines, manage households, and I would like to think I am cut from the same cloth, time and schedule in equilibrium.

A friend shared this link to an article in The New York Times, about how Russell Shorto, an American writer based in Amsterdam, was initially baffled by the 52 percent income tax rate required of residents there, and later on, how he warmed up and actually started liking the whole idea. The article chronicles the shift in reaction and opinion and towards the latter part, explains how Europeans and Americans manage their time differently, albeit the former, more efficiently. To quote:

"I used to think the commodious, built-in, paid vacations that Europeans enjoy translated into societies where nobody wants to work and everyone is waiting for the next holiday. That is not the case here. I’ve found that Dutch people take both their work and their time off seriously. Indeed, the two go together. I almost never get a work-related e-mail message from a Dutch person on the weekend, while e-mail from American editors, publicists and the like trickle in at any time. The fact that the Dutch work only during work hours does not seem to make them less productive, but more. I’m constantly struck by how calm and fresh the people I work with regularly seem to be."

Big Ben photo by Chris Hines, http://www.cs-guy.com

Gold Rush

I'd been on the lookout for the perfect (ideally, cheap) gold ballet flats since I noticed my reliable ones from Shoemart—a steal, at Php 300-plus (about USD 7) years back—started to show serious signs of wear and tear. And just like the perfect blue jeans, it was a bit of a challenge finding the right pair.

So I was quite thrilled today after spotting these lovely flats at CMG in Podium, at Php 799 (about USD 14!). They're just the right shade of gold, not too gawdy and not too sparkly. They come in a quaint shoe bag made from the same material with a tiny gold plate engraved with the letters C M G. Really classy. And the details are surprisingly as refined: suede lining and embossed rubber soles that complement the subtle golden hue of the shoe, the mark of well-crafted footwear.