3:30 p.m.
I am sitting at a salon waiting for my mother to get her eyebrows done, as I contemplate about how much money I spent on Booksale after I promised myself I’ll only buy the ones on sale for 20 pesos. OF COURSE I ended up spending much more than that. How much? I won’t tell.
In front of me sits a lady probably in her seventies, getting her haircut done by a short man with highlights on his hair, who moved in a businesslike manner intent on getting the job done.
The old lady is wearing something vaguely familiar. I try to squint and recall where I’d seen it. `Til it dawned on me and I cringed.
I use to wear the same blouse once a week to school during freshman year in college!!
I mean what on earth was I thinking?! Good thing I gave that blouse away years ago. Ughhh
Once, a friend jokingly said I had an old woman’s style and now I literally see why she would say that.
My reasons of course for my “old” fashion sense was this:
I once read that in order to hide your ungodly huge boobs you have to wear prints and patterns. So prints and patterns I scoured through every department store I landed on. Even if it meant devouring the ancient women’s section which consisted of floral patterns.
I didn’t get to enjoy a decent t-shirt starting at the age of 15 when I discovered that 99% percent of the time, boys are perverts whose eyes laser on huge boobs when they see one.
I used to cry myself to sleep when I recall seeing a boy staring at my chest or hear a stupid secret code they whisper when they see your basketballs bounce.
That time I was still a devoted Christian, believing in a church who teaches that women are responsible for men’s uncontrollable lust. So if boys are staring at you mischievously, it’s probably your fault. And you should cover up.
But Lord, how can I cover up these ridiculous amount of saggy fat plopped on my chest?????
I apologized profusely to God for having boobs in the first place.
But then God, you made me right? So you made these too? I thought.
If God made my body fearfully and wonderfully, why did I treat it like a sinful part of me?
Why was I shamed by the church for having a body?
Sixty percent of the time nowadays, I don’t care. Because my once padlocked mind has been opened. It blossoms with the realization that these things are just fats with nipples on top. There’s nothing special about it, really. And boys have probably seen a million porn videos that the familiarity of how boobs look like are deeply ingrained in their brains.
Mine would eventually get carried away in the sea of boobie images they have garnered in the corners of their minds.
Today, I am wearing a black v-neck with holes you can probably see through. But I am wearing a huge black sports bra that covers half of my torso. So I’m good.
My cleavage shows time to time and I still catch glimpses from men, but no guilt forms within me this time. Which is good news.
Maybe today is a good day.
Or maybe because I have fooled myself by thinking that any boy who stares at my chest, have actually a tiny one down there. For sure, if they knew I thought that, it would hurt their massive ego. So it feels great to think about it.
4:01 pm
I am sitting waiting for my Mom as she orders at KFC. I have grocery plastic bags surrounding me, reminding me of my adolescent years spent accompanying my Mom to the grocery whilst worrying what my Dad should have for dinner.
My Dad makes everything hard. For some reason he took a nazirite vow which means he can’t eat anything with vinegar which involves ketchup, mustard, etc.
Which means when Mom orders, say for example, burgers she has to specifically tell the cashiers about not putting any ketchup on it. Just patty and cheese. Most of the time they get it wrong, and Dad throws the burgers while yelling, “Damn!”
So you see, I had a lot to worry as a teenager. I worried for a man in his fifties as a teenager because of his moods. And that was just the food area concerned. Maybe someday I can elaborate more about the other areas.
While my peers were out having dates or going to the movies, I was stuck carrying approximately 2 plastic bags in each hand, with worry looming over my head about my Dad’s picky appetite.
In the midst of it all, I’d have a tug of war fight with my Mom who would discreetly pluck away the groceries in my hands, as she scolds me that I have scoliosis and shouldn’t be carrying them. But I held on to the bags for dear life, as we cross sun-filled streets and waited for a jeepney that passed only once in every 15 minutes.
My pleasure would consist of taking the favorite spot which is on the exit side of the jeep, putting my earphones on and blasting music, while imagining that I was out on a date or with friends or that I was a cool girl and everybody wanted to hang out with me.
What’s changed now, is well almost everything.
- This is one of those rare moments that my Mom goes to the groceries with me.
- I don’t worry about my Dad’s picky appetite anymore.
- I’ve been on multiple dates with my boyfriend, sometimes hang out with friends and
- I’m a cool girl… (nope not there yet, with the cool part.)
5:00 p.m.
We took the taxi home with a driver who thought he was in a Fast & The Furious Movie.
Who should I pay to have his guts when I go driving?
As soon as my butt hit the upholstered seat and put the groceries on the taxi car floors. I quickly pulled out my earphones to listen to Sinead O’Connor sing her heart out in “Nothing Compares to You.” At the same time the driver thought it was a good idea to crank up his music and start to sing a little bit.
Was he trying to spite me?
I cranked my volume too and relaxed while Sinead sang over me.
We got home in 20 minutes thanks to his speedy drive.
Right now, I am lying in my bed half naked, writing this and wanting to doze off, with thoughts of listening to Sinead again undisturbed and I think I’ll do just that.
Life With Rachel 