First Date Blues
I haven’t gone out on a first date for so long that I don’t think I’d know what to do if I went out on one all of a sudden. I was with someone for the past four years and I’m still in the process of trying to bounce back from the breakup. (Emotional overeating is so empowering! If anything, breakups give you the license to forget exercise and stuff your face silly. Based on the formula popularized in Sex and the City, I’m allowed to pig out without guilt for two years.)
At my age, I’m allowed to go as far as I want to on a first date. As long as I’m sure that I won’t cry about all the PG or even X-rated stuff that happens during the said date then it’s cool. If I’m still alive and free from flesh-eating disease in the morning then all is well.
I’ve lived alone (read: absolutely no housemates) for close to seven years and I think my parents no longer want to know how I spend my days. My dad, once ultra-conservative and strict enough to impose a ridiculous 6 p.m. curfew on me, now tells me, “You could live in with someone and it’s up to you.” Meanwhile, my mom, who lectured me about accidental pregnancies when I was around 10, now gives me scented body cream for “special occasions.” When I asked her, “What special occasions would require me to put on body cream that makes me smell like strawberries?” She simply said, “Anak, I don’t want to know. It’s your call.”
For all I know, both my parents are praying that I have unprotected sex soon. They’re feeling the pressure to produce a grandchild from their peers.
Well, you know what, that pot of body cream is still untouched and is gathering dust on my bookshelf in my apartment. God knows, when I’ll get to use it. Ah! The irony just about kills me.