This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on December 16, 1999.
By the year 2000, I would be Mrs. X. I would be a mom. I would be an influential, powerful, ostentatiously rich member of society. I would be perfectly happy. And I would be 24. It is almost the year 2000, but I am only one of the above: I am 24. Twelve years ago, planning my life was easy. With all the time in the world, all I had to do was stick to the reliable success formula: a good school plus good grades equals a good future.
To further enhance my personality, I had to do some sports, play some music, dabble in the arts. I had to start attending soirees. Since I first thought about what I would be at the turn of the century or the new millennium, it has been 144 months, or roughly 4,385 days. That long! Undeniably, I am quite fortunate to witness the entry of this particular Jan. 1st. I am lucky, even if I must unlearn automatically scribbling 19 on date slots, something I’ve been doing all of my life!
So far, most of the things I have done in life are in accordance with my 12-year scheme. With barely a month left before the deadline, look where I am: I am Mrs. KC Montero (in my delirious after-midnight life), mommy to two burping mongrels, professionally disillusioned (i.e., unemployed), and merrily miserable, or miserably merry.
Laying the groundwork
Don’t get me wrong, I did very well laying the groundwork all those 12 years. As a student, I reaped impressive marks and graduated on time. I had a zillion hobbies and interests. I was never a problem child. As a yuppie, I’ve rubbed elbows with the elite–as well as the destitute. And I know how promising life can truly be: I’ve outclassed most of my business counterparts and gained a lot of respect from friends. In fact I actually did better than I expected for 11 years.
All this was in preparation for the time when the clock strikes 12 on a certain day. Ironically, on the 12th and last year of setting up, things changed. Was it overconfidence that turned everything around? At the start of this dreadful year, I quit my job for ethical reasons. Too bad, as I was already starting to enjoy living independently in a posh condominium in Legaspi Village in Makati’s business district. I was already winning the favor of actual and potential business and political icons. I was already satisfying my tendencies toward megalomania.
But I felt I was being rushed too much, swamped by unfair expectations and congratulated for doing the wrong things right. I resigned. Grabbing a new job without careful consideration was just as silly as keeping the old one. I didn’t want to settle for a so-so position with a sorry pay and a sophomoric office system. I accepted the fact that it wasn’t time for me to be an influential, powerful, ostentatious member of society. The context was valid.
Longest vacation
By mid-year, my corporate life was immobilized by 16 units of Philosophy. There wasn’t a single job that fit my personality as well as my background. Well, okay, there’s nothing wrong with admitting the other half of the truth: I was having the second longest vacation of my life. I began going to school when I was 3 years old and always filled my summers with enrichment programs and jobs. Imagine how obsessed I was about making the most of my time!
It’s only now that I realize that sometimes, the best way to spend time is by simply forgetting about it. Besides, lingering in the purgatory of professionalism didn’t guarantee a complete mastery of boredom or derailment of other plans. I had a boyfriend of three years, a relationship that was tried and tested. We were already in the stage of being asked about ”The Date,” so we obviously could very well have been caught up in the year 2000 wedding frenzy. But we didn’t–not yet.
By August, we knew we never would. The break-up was smooth; not everyone among the members of our two families and friends know about it. We still move around together, somewhat content as best friends. But I don’t think we will restore our old arrangements just for the sake of welcoming the new millennium with a partner. Tick, tock, tick, tock. That is the sound of my body clock. I’m just 24 but my fingers are crossed, and I am hoping I don’t sleep through the alarm! Despite everything, I try not to dwell on my plans of being Mrs. X and a mom by the year 2000.
Running late
It’s inexplicable, the way I play this game desultory after being coached intensely. Should I stick to plan A or move on with plan B? I am not a big risk taker. I don’t deal with regret very well. And I am running out of time. But then again, I have run out of motivation. There are some people, as my friend Gladee testifies from a lifetime of personal experience, who always end up late. No matter how early they start, something’s bound to come up to delay their plans.
Is it possible that my case is the same? That would be horrifying. I’ve always respected time. I respected it enough to plan ahead of it. But is there really such a thing? Time is powerful, ultimately overwhelming. Freeze it and get anything you want. Play by it and get anything you need. Technologize it and (ha ha) get the Y2K. Because we have done the last, time is no longer merely an abstraction. And no matter what we do, there’s no stopping it.
In my unsolicited opinion, it is unthinkable for any other concept to be more constant. And if it is so, then I’d succumb to its decision halfway. By the time the clock strikes 12, to signal the beginning of Jan. 1, 2000, I’ll still feel bitter about the unlucky months past. And I’ll still believe that time will eventually grant me redemption because it knows I run a fair race. Suddenly, there is something noble and sensible in the manana habit.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll accept my defeat in the face of such an unrelenting force. Maybe I’ll even attend the grandiose street party on New Year’s Eve that my friends keep yakking about while I sink in misfortune. Maybe I’ll even restart the internal hype, the one I believed in and looked forward to before most people my age did. Maybe I’ll stop snapping at people: ”This is overrated! Isn’t 2001 the real deal? Or do you personally start counting with a zero?”
Maybe tomorrow
Yes, maybe tomorrow I will send out my resumé and hint of sweet nothings to my former huggy-buggy. Maybe tomorrow, if I am totally persuaded that by the year 2001 I would be Mrs. X, a mom, an influential, powerful, ostentatiously rich member of society, and perfectly happy. Then I would be 25.
