St. Paul and the Wicked Dragon

I feel so sorry for my gym instructor, P. He's an excellent trainor, unfortunately, I fell into his hands.

Yes, you can think St. George and the Dragon.

A few minutes past the alloted time, I come rushing through the stiles breathless. And when we finally do start the lesson, I'm a 'weakling' as he calls me, from lack of sleep or lack of sustenance.

I smile brilliantly at him the first few minutes but my good cheer deteriorates into bratty petulance when the frustration and fatigue sets in. Damn treadmill. Darn machines. Darn stretches. I'm panting worse than the fatties and oldies he trains. Sometimes, I cry from the unfairness of it all. Unfortunately, I have the sinking suspicion he enjoys my watery exhibitions. I am a mountain of stone at work. Even with the NBI harassing me, I am cool. But 30 minutes into the Master of Pain's workout, I am blubbering like a six-year old.

Sometimes, I think it's the other way around.

When I have to wait for hours for him. Now where did Lolo get to? Very embarassing to admit to the other Trainors that you've misplaced your personal instructor.

When he acts like I'm invisible. Hello! I'm right here. I'm too cute to miss. haha. Wait, here's a bucket for those spasms.

When he harangues me about my PATA. They're not THAT planetoidal. Or are they? *scratches head*

When he accuses me of not trying that hard. Wait a minute, he's right!

Sometimes, when I walk past the other trainors, I can feel their judgemental eyes following me. Brat, they must label me. Shouldn't be a wonder. P has threatened, cajoled, persuaded, teased, and raised his voice at me to get me to follow my program. I try MY BEST but I can't help being myself...

Sometimes deaf because I'm walking in Lost. It takes me a full five minutes to remember I'm in the gym...

Sometimes my blood just gets lost in Circulation and I'm dazed, dizzy, and a step from dropping like a stone at his feet...

Sometimes, my body just can't plain respond to the instructions from my brain. I've been a klutz for years. Can't change that in a twinkling...

So in the meantime, P and I end up fighting like the proverbial cats and dogs in the midst of hardworking trainors and clients (who get along in peace and harmony)

I have honestly thought hard and long about changing trainors. I am too fond enough of him that I want to spare him all the agony of training me. I also don't like the thought of him looking at the clock with dread thinking, Egadz, it's time for that crazy woman again.

But today was a good day. Even if I muffed my program more than usual.

This day's training was more intense than usual. I don't know what that goddamn machine was but I had to climb up these steps and reach for the handlebars and hoist myself up and down several times. Egadz! How do I carry myself with just my arms? My brains sends a message to my body.

I can't! I can't! I tell P.

You CAN do it, he argues. And he gets this steely look that brooks no argument. I think of him getting tumbled out of the Top Ten Trainors (oh woe, is it because of me) and decide to try. I tell him so. I wrestle with the damn thing trying to get into proper position. I'm supposed to raise myself with my arms and cross my feet. Cross my feet?! Why? Whatever for? I find out later when he grabs my feet and raises me. After a few minutes, I work out how I can do the raises with his support. I can't raise myself with just my hands but I CAN do it by pushing down somewhat from my feet which he is holding in place. We do this several times until I get slightly better at it. After holding for 6 counts, I fall heavily to the ground as he lets go. He brushes himself off and I am stricken. Eep, dirt from my rubber shoes. And the ground was wet out from the drizzle. I brush his front down with my hands. We go through this ritual several times till I notice a guy seated against the wall who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. I don't know if he was enjoying but he surely found something funny.

P makes jokes about my butt and my planetoid thighs in his face. He tells me that all the while I was straining, he was praying I wouldn't f***. Eeek! I can be totally green-minded but NOT gross. Ewwwww.... We are laughing all the way to CineFit. I am just too embarassed for words.

Later I have to lie down on one of the seats to avoid fainting. As I down the nasty orange soda he brings me, I take the opportunity to encourage him to drop me from his roster of clients if he wanted. His answer. Di ko iniisip un. Iniisip mo kasi baliw ka. Surprising answer. I thought he would've been Google-ing like hell by this time. Something along the lines of...

How to drop your client while making her think it's her own brilliant idea...

But like I said, the answer surprised. Hmp. Twould take a 10-wheeler truck to get me to admit that I was very touched.

Later, he introduces higher levels of pain to the Stretching exercises. Egadz, I never thought they could get any more painful. I had never actively shouted in pain before today and I must've given the poor Maintenance guy cleaning the mirrors a bad turn.

Looking back, I realize it's a bitter pill to swallow but I can't do it all by myself. I AM lucky that there are people willing to hold me up by my feet while I struggle to raise myself to heights.

P is a hard taskmaster but I think he can slay the Wicked Dragon.

Walking in Lost

Lost is a place I am familiar with. I used to make forays in that valley with Dead beside me. I miss those days. The doorway to that godforsaken place was a sad song in his mp3 player and invoked with the ritual of flicking a lighter open, the hissing sound accompanying the burning of a cigarette stick. The end glows bright as bright as those days in Lost.

And then Dead disappeared. And I stayed away from Lost. I worked. I read. Talked and laughed on the phone. A charade that soon became real in itself.

But then one night, it was very quiet and deserted and I stumbled on Dead sitting alone. I couldn't help myself. I sat by him.

You're sad. Thin. Dry as a husk. You're sick. Your skin looks like brown paper wrinkled with age.

What do you call people who tell you you're drowning or dying? Friends? Enemies? Lovers? Past lovers?

And he answers. He is sad. Thin. Dry as a husk. Sick. Unhappy. Couldn't push or pull for anything.

With friends, sometimes there are silences. Silences that are brooding and meditating. In one of those silences I searched for something. Some light that would brighten his shadowed spirit. I search my memory for any time in the past wherein he was happy. I search all the familiar nooks and crevices of my memory but I emerge from my foray empty-handed.

And I look at Dead whom I loved so much. Never before at that moment have I felt the hand of God or felt the strands of cosmic destiny intertwined in a perfect intersection. To have an unrequited desire for so long only to realize years after what a blessing it was after all to have it remain such. Unrequited. God does know better. He holds back on what we wish and mayhaps give us better than we ever dreamed of.

The latter is maybe yet to unfold but whatever the outcome, well, it IS an adventure after all.

And even if I say goodbye to Dead, his words echo in Lost.

Thank you for listening to me. I haven't really talked to anyone these days.

Dead will always be Dead.

I will always find my way to Lost.

Someday we will bump into each other again, Dead and I, and walk those paths in Lost.

My Little Prince II

One day, the Little Prince and I were talking as usual about the stars and the horizon when I exclaimed to him,

"But I don't even know if you are real or a figment of my imagination."

"I am as real as the sound of this stone falling into my ocean," the Little Prince argued.

For six revolutions of the moons, we had been talking in Dreaming. Till finally the day came that he appeared before me heralded by a sleek vehicle of sorts.

In a lordly fashion, we went around his kingdom. The Little Prince pointed out his glass castles.

"Am I real now?" he asked.

Ghosts

If I were my usual angst-ridden self (ye gods, am i actually on the road to recovery?) my ordinary readers would probably assume that by ghosts i refer to shadowy, painful remembrances. But heave a sigh of relief as I spare you from all that drama. I mean I-see-dead-people ghosts.

Nothing exciting really. I stayed overnight alone at the office for the first time. This huge dark cave of an office. I thought there would be Graveyard people on shift but I was mistaken. Hence I found myself alone at 1am.

I've heard the guys talking about THEM. I neither believe nor disbelieve. All I can tell you is that I heard a girl's voice. Let me sketch a picture for you. It's 2am at the office. I was alone with the hissing sound of fumigation from the whole mall (yes, I was that unlucky). This whole damn area was darker than usual and smoky. The fans were whirring from the far end of the room. F's rock music was a dull whispher. You could see dust motes doing pirouettes in the milky light. I had settled myself in for some few quality hours of work and games when I really heard and saw it. Nothing substantial I assure you. But I heard this girl's voice. I WASN'T expecting it so I know I heard it. It was unintelligible speech and now that I think hard, it appeared to be coming from overhead from the left side of the wall were the servers were. I tried not to look and I tried not to hear. But a shadowy movement crossed my peripheral vision from the left. That's when I stood up and turned up the rock music REALLY loud. And snatched H's Stitch, hugged him real tight, and closed my eyes.

A little side story about Stitch. I've been trying to borrow the little tyke from the Angel Uriel for a year now but she's been very difficult. Claims the poor dirty thing is a squatter about to be reclaimed by his master. Surprise, surpise, after my usual spiel of borrowing Stitch, the Angel Uriel acceded readily. Ha. Synchronicity, see? I needed Stitch to keep the ghosts at bay with his soft dirty paws. hehe.

What WOULD be interesting though is if a ghost actually stood in front of me. Maybe next time.