This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on February 14, 2006.
The moment it happened I knew I ad to write about it. The title of my piece would be “Dismissed.”
Last Christmas, my boyfriend said we needed a cooling off period. Two weeks later, he said goodbye to two years’ worth of food and constant togetherness. It was over in 30 minutes. Just like that. I felt like I had been dismissed! Dissed!
To think I chose him instead of entering the convent! To think I gave him a second chance! To think I stuck it out with him even if people from Muelle Loney to Punta Buri were calling me a martyr!
Erase! Erase! Three days after the big dismissal, I changed my mind. The title I wanted for my article had to be more profound, something that would make my public licking of wounds really worth it. I was going to title my piece, “The Confessions of a Chewing Gum.”
Now that’s profound. This guy, he chewed me out. He was the best chewer of all. And he had worked out a fail-safe method for spitting gum, too.
I wanted to write about the luck of a chewing gum. I wanted to end the piece with the chewing gum getting its revenge (it can be very hard to pry off shoes, clothes, and hair, you know). I wanted to write about the relationship, which was draining, to say the least. In the weeks before my dismissal, I was like the cheerleader who had forgotten to take Red Bull before the championship game. I had this epiphany when I re-read my diary. I was so amazed at myself. What an actress! Super!
My mom had been saying I was “coating my misery in bland delight” (whatever that meant). I knew there were holes in our relationship somewhere, but I chose to leave them unplugged and told myself: “Well, there’s always a next time. It won’t happen again. He’s just tired and he has 65 million things on his beautiful mind.” I was truly the tastiest, juiciest chewing gum there was.
I was all set to write everything when I learned about the girl, who happens to be one of my not-so-close-but-still-close friends. I had told Mr. Chewer, during one of our many conversations long ago, she was the girl I wanted him to be with if I suddenly died. He took my advice while I’m still alive!
I laughed out really hard when I learned about l’affaire. So it never was about me, after all. It was about him. We drifted apart? We had nothing in common? I wouldn’t stand by him? He couldn’t make time for me because of family concerns? Hellooo!
By then, I knew that everything he had told me during the 30-minute dismissal was cow dung. I had been had not once, but twice. Tsk, tsk, my piece needed a major rewrite. Possible titles now: “Men Never Change,” “Sophomore Jinx,” “Breakup Lines: Discovering the Subliminal,” or “Love is Never Lovelier the Second Time Around” (too long).
I thought I was too angry to ever be able to sit down and pound on my computer to write this. My rage lasted about a day, and I lost one pound (yehey!). After that one very angry day, I told myself, “Enough!” I turned to all the cliches I knew for consolation: He is no longer in my life. He is not worth my tears. He is not the one for me. It is for the best. God has other plans for me. The children in Botswana have bigger problems than my one tiny dilemma.
Needless to say, l’affaire and le dismissal sent tongues in our small town wagging. I told—no, ordered—my friends to put up a united front. No press conference from me, just a two-word press release saying, “No comment.” I expected all my friends to say the same thing when asked about what happened to us, the perfect couple gone bust. “No Comment” would have been a good title had I written this last week.
I turned to my faith, too. “Lord, I know Your love for me never fades,” I would pray. So maybe I thought I’d do something along the lines of “Out of a Heartbreak, Into the Convent… Again?”
Nah, I don’t think so. For now, I am blissfully going to early morning Mass and the adoration chapel.
Somebody tried to soothe the hurt by advising me: “Don’t think. Don’t analyze. Just be. The pain comes from the interpretation.” So enough. Stop. No more thinking about the what if’s because the what if’s don’t exist.
This year is not the year of the dog, it is the year of magnanimity. In my earlier drafts, I wanted to tell Mr. Chewer, “I hope you care about your current chewee as much as you care about yourself.” But that’s mean. So instead, I would like to say to him: “Go! You have my blessings, remember? I sincerely wish you both happiness. Sincerely. The threat of nuclear devastation is nil. Promise.”
I’m finally writing this piece today. Today, just today, I am determined to be happy instead of immersing myself in my self-made dramas. Just today, too, I know I have finally found the courage to write finis to that past experiment in love and loving.
Chicken Little said, “Today is a new day.” It is. I am loved and I am love. Hmmm, that sounds like a perfect title for my next piece. I’ll keep you posted.
