When I was 11 or 12, I desperately wanted to have hair-free, flawless arms and legs.
This wasn’t unusual, I guess, for a pre-teen inundated with commercials pushing for soft and white and flawless skin to want fuzz-free limbs. But this was a problem for a pre-pubescent Bea who was sired by two very balbon (read: hairy) parents.
I told my mother this dilemma and she told me: you’re too young to shave and besides, you’re perfect just the way your are (no, mama, I wasn’t).
And thus, armed with my 12 years of wisdom and experience, I did exactly what my mama told me not to do. I stole one of my father’s disposable razors and shaved off my arm hair like there was no tomorrow.
Suffice to say, the next few days and weeks were horrible. One thing my mother convenient forgot to tell me: hair can be itchy when it grows back.
And thus started my colorful history of not listening to wiser, better informed people.
Mama was cool about it though, and pretended not to have noticed that her very balbon child was now suddenly hair-free. And thankfully, I learned from that debacle. I did not dare touch a razor again until I entered college.
Ten years (okay, 11… okay, 12) later, my problems are much, much bigger than “I wish I had hair-free skin like in the commercials.”
I’m not going to mince words: being an “adult” or at the very least, being expected to act like one, suck balls. Sucks. Balls.
And in my darkest of moments, my mind starts to wander and I wonder: what would mama have said? (Or more importantly, how would she have reacted to my stupid life decisions?)
There are a lot of regrets that I would rather not dwell on, or memories-that-could-have-been that I push out of my mind before they can even enter.
But when the going gets tough, you tend to run to your mama, don’t you?
And that’s just something I can’t do. (Unless I summon a psychic or something. Nope.)
This is a blog entry that I was supposed to write during Mother’s Day. But there was something about that particular day that made typing anything cohesive impossible.
July 7 is fast approaching. June 23 before that, Christmas and New Year’s after that.
And even as I type it down, I can barely believe it. It has been almost 10 years since I heard your laugh, touched your cheeks, or made you cry (hehe).
I will never forget the night I found out what malignant meant.
This is the biggest nightmare of any writer, reporter, journalist, or storyteller: not being able to write, narrate, or recount things – at least, not in the way you want to.
Forgetting is a funny and fickly little thing. For the most part, it’s hard to forget. But when you don’t want to, or when you least expect to, you do. I don’t remember the sound of my voice anymore, or the distinct laugh she had – not a cackle like mine, but a hearty laugh, the kind that assured you she meant it.
I do remember what her nose looked like – like mine, a little flat but not too flat. Or her eyes, her kind, gentle eyes. And maybe even her hands, with its scars and burn marks from all those years or cooking and baking and giving in to that phase in my life when I though baking sculptures was what I needed to do.
I remember the clothes she wore – willowy skirts, feminine tops, bags that were pretty but could handle all her wallets and things, even Mikey’s occasional action figure. She also went through a boots phase. I thought then, and I still think now, that was awfully cool for a woman in her 40s living in Butuan.
A million and one things have happened in the last few… months that I’ve been unable to update this blog.
Most notably, I turned a year older – I turned 22, to be precise. 22 doesn’t really mean anything though, does it? I remember how:
- turning 18 was a big deal because OHMYGODYOUREFINALLYLEGALBEA!
- 19 meant something because “shet, last ‘teen’ year!” (also because I turned 19 after graduating from college. Chew on that.
- 2-0 was a big deal because two decades of existence woohoo!
- 21 meant something because that meant I was legal-legal. Whatever that meant.
But 22 is a wee bit awkward, yes? It doesn’t really commemorate anything, so thank goodness for that Taylor Swift song.
Oh, and here’s some trivia about me: I hate “celebrating” my birthday. There’s something about having family, friends, and strangers wish you an amazing day (or year) ahead that unsettles me. Weird? Maybe.
Fortunately, it’s something good company, beer, and the occasional awkward moment can easily fix. Although it would not be a stretch to say I spend the last 30 minutes of being 21 in anxiety, praying to god my friends shared my belief that midnight birthday surprises are the absolute worst things in the world.
In the last month, I also went from semi-homeless to full-blown homeless to foster daughter of a reluctant single ‘father’ to…
living in my own place.
It’s a 2-bedroom condo, with a fairly spacious living area, a legit kitchen and 2 bathrooms! It’s also
practically, no, LITERALLY bare. Can’t wait to fill it up with failed DIY projects!
Aaaand that’s pretty much it. More new things are coming my way, but I don’t even know where and how to start. But that’s the thing with beginnings, right? They just come right at you, ready or not.