What's up with Kim?

A whole lotta mess! That's what's up with me. I just noticed that I haven't friggin' blogged for over THREE FULL MONTHS! Too preoccupied with the mundane things that have been happening since my last post... Haven't even had time to visit Chrissy's site, or to read CK's latest rantings and ravings, or to even check out the new pup pictures on http://uncivilone.blogspot.com.

Last night, I managed to read an interesting article on an old Reader's Digest edition (Feb 2004, if I'm not mistaken). The article's called "Stress in 10 Minutes Free."

Oops.

I meant "Stress Free in 10 Minutes." (It's that darned confusing layout.)

So, here I am - implementing one of the tricks that the stress doctors that Reader's Digest interviewed had recommended: thinking happy thoughts.

Since the thoughts that are entering my head are fuzzy and warm, I thought I'd post some pictures of the "old" life I'm trying to get rid of... which I'm hoping that I could fully get rid of by the end of this month.

Above's a picture of my temporary desk in the office. It's what my colleagues have started to call "The Blackhole."

Here's my mini-cabinet. The papers on top of it just started to materialise about 7 months ago. And they've obviously taken over the entire BEING of the cabinet. "What's inside it?," you may ask. Food. Lots and lots of food. Junk food to be more precise.

This box has been with me since July 2007. I haven't opened it since that time, but I keep lugging it around with me. I may never open it up at all. I'm too scared to find out what's already grown inside it.

You would think that the bottom of my desk would be "safe" from me. But, noooo. Thank god there's only one pair of shoes underneath it when I took this picture. There used to be 2 pairs. They're spares, by the way. I had my flip flops on when I took this pic.

And, yes, I wear flip flops to the office. I'm too harassed to wear those killer stilettos everyday.

21st Century Taboo (Adobo-Style)

MSN UK recently listed ten 21st century taboos in an opinion article (read it here), and asked its readers which one(s) they’re guilty of. Ticking some of them off one by one, I’d say:

1. I have never given a beggar money – not because I’m a Scrooge, but because crime syndicates rampantly use the “Help-me-I’m-poor” ploys and some greedy lazy parents criminally use their kids in the “Help-me-I’m-young-AND-poor” gambits here in Metro Manila. I have, however, once given a poor tattered-looking boy my packed sandwich when he had approached my car that was, at that time, stuck in traffic. That wasn’t taboo, Mr. MSN. That was… uhm, me sticking to my no-carbo diet.
2. I am a deeeeee-voe-ted Princess Diana fan. I have an altar dedicated to her in my closet [because I don’t want anyone to see it :-)]. Never would I ever malign her name. Shame on those who would!
3. I like gentlemen. Opening doors for women is not a taboo. It’s common courtesy. Heck, I’D open a door for another woman, if (a) she’s older than me and (b) she’s overburdened with ten million things in her arms. Kill me with a spoon whydontcha, if you disagree.
4. Lennon’s “Imagine” is a classic. It is an idealistic piece of shmooze, and is number 23 on my computer’s digital music player list. I’ve also got “Hey Jude” on my song list… What can I say? I’m a quasi-Beatle-Fan reincarnate.
5. I am an advocate of non-fat milk. Whenever I drink it, I feel like I didn’t gain an ounce. It doesn’t mean I’ve actually lost weight, but I feel like I did. Therefore, I am a staunch advocate of non-fat milk.

With regards to the five other taboos listed - I gotta admit I have absolutely no idea what the guy was talking about anymore, since they’re too “British” for me to relate to, but here are some that people of my culture and in my society would most probably consider taboo in the 21st century:
a. Wearing t-shirts over your bikinis on the beach.

Why’d you buy a bikini in the first darned place, honey?

b. Singing “Thriller” at your favourite karaoke bar.

Let’s face it. That Michael Jackson song really fits Michael Jackson’s vocal range and Michael Jackson’s alone. Your “hoohoos” and “heehees” would never sound like Jackson’s. Give it up. Try singing something by Ne-Yo now. I hear his song “Irreplaceable” is quite a hit. Especially if you’re drunk.

c. Begging.

Right now, I believe they call this act “Selling.”

d. Playing with real marbles and real Barbie dolls.

PS3’s and laptops, according to the general up-to-date consensus from ten-year-old kids and kids-at-heart, are way cooler than boring old games like these. Besides, ancient things like marbles are no longer being manufactured, and Barbie dolls are for older women and gay men who collect such things as memorabilia of their once-upon-a-time youth.

e. Eating with your hands.

One word? Ewww.

f. Using hairspray

Like, oh my gosh! Haven’t you ever heard of, like, CFCs?
Or is it CCFs?
I, like, could never get that dangerous thingamajig’s name straight. But, like, my gosh!
Haven’t you heard of them, like, at all???

g. Consuming meat.
See letter “f.”

h. Speaking only one language.
Yes, I understand you’re a true-blue Filipino, man. I know exactly how you feel. But, you just GOTTA learn how to speak English well, man. You just GOTTA. Please understand: “piss” and “peace” DO NOT RHYME, man. They just don’t, you know what I mean?

i. Getting married at the church where your parents got married in.
This was soooooooooo ten minutes ago – that tradition died together with Mandy Moore in the movie “A Walk To Remember.”

j. Getting married.
Period.

Allergic to Love

To Tina Turner, my heartfelt thanks. When I first heard her sing “huwaaaaat’s love got tah do / got tah do with it,” my four-year-old brain immediately connected with the lyric, and it became a strong testament to my then sponge-like absorption of things new: “What’s Love Got To Do With It” was the very first song I sang in one of my countless recitals as a kid. I even kept the Tina outfit I wore (no wig back then – too gauche, my voice teacher thought), in memoriam of that particularly embarrassing three-and-a-half minute worth of fame, an experience among numerous others, which I would not care to repeat in future lives.

Now, twenty years later, I think that Tina said the most brilliant thing and sang the most heartfelt song ever. Ember Anne blogged about something similar on her own site (which, weirdly and eeringly, sounds like my own life story being told – by another person whom I’ve never met before) and it got me thinking about two things: (1) what, indeed, does love got tah do with anything, and (2) am I allergic to relationships?

I have girlfriends who have/had bad relationships. Their stories range from coping with temperamental/jealous/unfaithful boyfriends/husbands, to living with woman-beating s#%* heads, to giving their hearts to lying, cheating men who are in “wedded bliss” with other women. Because I love these lady friends who trust me enough to tell their stories to, their influence and their lessons have a profound effect on me.

Because of them, I think I’m afraid to take risks and let myself go.

Add to that the fact that I read blogs by women like Girlie Monkey and Mindy in Minneapolis – and I think, if svelte smooth sexy women like them (at least that’s how I perceive them to be) have trouble in the dating world, what more for me???

I try to forget about the horrible experiences(sssssss) I’ve had with the opposite sex back when I was a teen, but it’s not easy especially when I see a piece of monay (a big round-shaped piece of bread). I laugh now at the awful nicknames given to me by the boys back then, but…

Sometimes they’re still objects of my nightmares, you know?

And then, I read blogs like:

• Chrissy’s Life on Manitoulin, where a poor character named “hubby” is awoken at two o’clock in the morning to save a rain-soaked cat (he was smart enough to just roll back to sleep, though);
• Jimmy’s UncivilOne, where he captures images from websites his ex-wife likes and pastes them onto his own blog (awwwww, how shuweet);
• Curiosity Killer’s custom-made site, where she talks about her extraordinary life in Hong Kong (I’ve never come across a “love”-related issue/angst yet in her blog, so please DON’T correct me if I’m wrong);
• Ganns Deen’s personal site, where he posts songs of praise and love, and shares stories about his life-made-in-heaven with wife "C," son "N1," car Gigi, and soon-to-be daughter "N2"; and,
• PJ’s Tech Shark blog, where words like “halubshu” and “mahal” dedicated to a woman named Conne abound.

So, in answer to my own concerns…
(1) What’s love got tah to do with it, Tina? ANS: Everything.
(2) Am I allergic to relationships? ANS: Yes. But I try and “cure” myself of this allergy through daily doses of bullet-points one to five, mentioned above. Thanks to them, hope remains.

A Nightmare Come True

On one of our sojourns to the Ice Vodka Bar in Greenbelt 3 on an early Friday evening, three of my friends and I reacquainted ourselves with Liza, one of the bar waitresses, and dunked our collective angst in booze and cigarette smoke. We were, once again, taking horrible advantage of the bar’s PhP395+ (roughly around US$8.78+) drink-all-you-can vodkatinis, which are headily combined with a salmon pizza that’s good for one’s supper. You oughtta tell by now that my MadDoggerz and I spend plenty of time and money on this awesome promo package that the bar offers its patrons during its lean hours, 1800H to 2100H.

However, it was on this fateful Friday that I heard one of the weirdest songs I’ve ever heard. Ne-Yo sang his hit tune “Irreplaceable,” which he had originally written for Beyoncé. When the song’s Intro beats started blaring from the bar’s humongous speakers, everyone on the dance floor started their usual bump and grind, but instead of the normal “To the left / to the left” lyric, Ne-Yo sang:

“To the right / to the right
Everything you own in a box to the right
In the closet / Yeah, that’s my stuff
So, if I bought it / Bitch, don’t touch…”

It was already 2200H when Ne-Yo assertively screamed these words through my fuzzy brains (I wouldn’t blame me for being a wee bit buzzed by this time – I’d started on the vodka drinks at 1800H, for cryin’ out loud). So, I then happily pointed out to my friends that Ne-Yo f***ed up his own lyric, resolutely sang my own completely indecipherable words in time with the song’s beat, and purposefully struggled off of my bar stool to dance drunkenly in front of two very sexy guys.

I was told that no more than two minutes passed when my companions (read: ex-friends) forcibly pushed me out of the bar door, hailed the first cab they saw, and dumped me with the poor, hapless taxi driver. I distinctly remember waving goodbye to the two aforementioned hotties, but I don’t think they waved back. I also think I ruined a pair of good fuck-me shoes that night, but I don’t remember where I’d put them now.

…

Come to think of it, I don’t even remember if all these things really happened to me on this supposed Friday night. Gawd, I hope not, coz I just blogged about it to the whole wide world.

Tagged (again)!

Wooohoo! A break from work! Internet’s down, so I finally found time to compose an entry for mineistheearth. There’s plenty to say after more than a week’s absence online, so this is the perfect time to say them. Besides, my boss can’t blame me. I HAVE to do something while I’m here in his office, don’t I?


INSTRUCTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

1) Pointless Drivel
2) Shelli’s Sentiments
3) Curiosity Killer
4) Chrissy
5) Kim

Next select five people to tag: (if you haven’t done it already)
1) Winky
2) Raymond
3) Leigh
4) Ganns
5) Idjea


What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was about to start my freshman year at the Ateneo de Manila University. Come June 1997, I learned how to struggle graciously with a couple of subjects: Filipino 1 and PE (Fitness Walking)! I was never good at physical activities, but at least the gym workouts now are helping me compensate.


What were you doing 1 year ago?
I was starting my new job. :-)


Five snacks you enjoy
1) Nagaraya regular or adobo-flavoured crunchy peanuts
2) Canned peaches in syrup
3) Chocolate wafers
4) Ham with mayo on wheat bread and a glass of milk
5) Oreos and a glass of milk


Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1) Smooth (Santana feat. Rob Thomas)
2) Love Moves in Mysterious Ways (Julia Fordham)
3) Again (Janet Jackson)
4) Sana Maulit Muli (Gary Valenciano)
5) You Oughta Know (Alanis Morissette)
Note: I've memorised other songs, but these are the top five that I feel I can blog about without blushing.


Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1) Spruce up my folks’ home in Quezon City and purchase the title to my family’s ancestral home in Paco, Manila

2) Upgrade and buy up everything on my list of “I Wants”

3) Go on a trip around the world with someone special

4) Put up my own business – preferably something related to food and/or clothes

5) After accomplishing items 1-4, I’d start a pension fund, which would be, at most, 20% of my remaining net worth, and then I'd contribute the rest to charities that would benefit Filipino street children.


Five bad habits:
1) I smoke.
2) I crave for chocolate way too much.
3) I blog at work, something I really shouldn’t be doing.
4) I gossip. Kindly. :-)
5) I drink coffee as if it’s water.


Five things you like doing:
1) Travelling
2) Writing – hence, the blog. D'oh!
3) Reading Nora Roberts novels – my guilty pleasure
4) Singing in the shower
5) Having Wednesday or Friday night drinks with my Maddoggers!


Five things you would never wear again:
1) Anything with a floral pattern printed on it – these clothing items should be banned from the face of the earth, forever!

2) Butterfly clips to tie back my hair. They are soooooo ten years ago, man.

3) Fitted pants. My thighs have already revolted and won against these things.

4) Stockings without garter clips holding them up on my legs during a job interview - I did this only once in my life, when I had an interview for an internship position at J. Walter Thompson (one of the world’s largest ad agencies). The stockings started rolling down my legs as I descended a staircase, on my way down to the ladies’ powder room to re-touch my make-up. Due to highly strung nerves, I accidentally ripped the bloody hose as I pulled them up. I had to go bare-legged during the interview. It was just my luck that I forgot to shave my legs that day, too. *sigh*

5) Runny mascara during a job interview – After I took off the torn hose (please see #4), I was already sweating cats and dogs inside the very hot restroom. I checked myself in the mirror and simultaneously wiped dripping sweat off of my brow. Horrifyingly, a straight black line appeared from one end of my right brow to the other end of left brow, as soon as I put my hand down from my face.
Note: I still got the job at J. Walter Thompson, despite items 4-5.


Five favorite toys:
1) My PDA
2) My car
3) My office laptop – which I bring home to watch DVD’s on
4) My gym’s ab machine
5) My sister’s mobile phone, since mine sucks.

Burned!

A trip down to the town of San Juan in Batangas was exactly what the doctor ordered for me this past weekend. Expect another "Fun in the Sun" entry to be posted here soon (insert: I just love love love the fact that I live two to three hours away from a good beach - north, south, east, or west.)

However, the prescribed "drug" I took this weekend turned out to be addictive, waaaay too addictive... Today, I look as if I deliberately boiled myself alive. Head first. From my hairline down to my underarms, I'm an Oompa-Loompa personified. Oi vey.

The Dances That I’ll Never Dance Again

I love to dance.

By myself.

And, in private.

My moves are never ever to be seen in public. They’ve been known to stop traffic and cause horrendous appalling accidents that could have been avoided in the first place. But I’m game with trying new things at least once in my life. So, when my gym trainer suggested that I try out the aerobic classes they were offering to all gym members, I thought, “Sure, why the heck not? How bad could it be?”

Well, I found out a few days ago exactly how bad it CAN be. It can be stupendously horrible, atrociously bad, and hideously awful. First off, the aerobics instructor was a man - one who is more girly-girl than I am. Jesus, he has an hour-glass figure and a flexible frame. He has shaved legs, too, to boot! Second, he was very very good, but had a soft soft voice. I stood at the back of the class and struggled to hear his instructions. To my mortification, I found myself with a pair of tangled legs, two lead arms, a dreadful rhythm, and THE sweatiest body to hit that dance floor EVER.

As I went through the class, I distinctly heard him instruct us to do the “mambo,” the “cha-cha-cha,” and the “boogie” several times during the exercise routine. My gawd, I have not had any training whatsoever in dance (except the ballet, when I was five years old), so I ended up massacring all three dance steps. My brain and my hips swayed in opposite directions; my two left feet brought me crashing into other students; and, my stiff hands stubbornly clutched at my waist.

I checked my watch – I’ve only been in the class for 20 minutes and I decided I’ve had enough. The instructor has ordered us to pair up... Pair up?! No friggin’ way. I’d much rather take my individual humiliation and drown myself in a Jacuzzi. Moral lesson learnt: I’ll stick to fantasizing about Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing, Mikhail Baryshnikov in White Nights, Channing Tatum in Step Up, and Marques Houston in You Got Served. No more dreaming about dancing like the stars.

But, I’ll still hippity-hop my way around my 30-sqm condo to the sound of Jojo’s Too Little Too Late any darned time I want to, thank you very much.

Stuck

Dedicated to Conne and PJ. Thanks for the ride yesterday. Also dedicated to our office building’s administrator/manager. May you rot eternally in your own edifice.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided to hitch a ride with my friends, Conne and PJ, to my condo because rains started to pour down in the middle of the sweltering humidity we’ve been experiencing recently in this part of the world. Conne and I packed up our laptops and boarded the elevator that would take us down from the fourth level of our office building to the ground floor, where PJ was waiting. Ten seconds into the ride, the elevator car’s lights abruptly shut off, throwing us into pitch black darkness. Simultaneously, we heard an ominous thump and felt the car’s floor bump heavily against our feet. We mentally screamed: we’re stuck.

I swear, it was the longest minute of my life. Conne started wheezing (ladylike-ly, of course), and whipped out her mobile phone so we would have some semblance of light inside the 50-year-old elevator carriage. I silently prayed that there would be a button on the control panel that would signify “EMERGENCY. "A prayer was essential because some naughty building tenants had been scraping the labels off of the elevators’ buttons. Thankfully, though, there it was – a bedazzling yellow button with a black bell drawn on it. I pressed on it. Nothing. I pressed it again, harder. Still nothing. We mentally screamed: we’re stuck.

And I could not find my blasted mobile phone inside my personal black hole (i.e., my bag). So, I shouted for help. Conne breathed even more heavily (but ladylike-ly, of course). I shouted louder, and thought, “Is this it??? My end has come in the form of a 1x3x7-foot elevator cab, with dirty white walls that had badly scrawled curse words drawn on them?” I mentally screamed: I don’t even have a bloody boyfriend who’ll miss having me around!

Suddenly, the lights came back on. We heard a whirring sound (the elevator motor, I presumed), and praised whatever god there may be, for it seemed as if our ordeal with the small, bad, elevator was over. Another sixty seconds later, the doors chug-a-chugged opened. Hallelu - - wait - - where are we? On the seventh freakin’ floor. Never mind, never mind. We found a staircase and started our descent. We mentally screamed: we’re free.

While waiting for us inside his car, PJ fumed. We had made him late for his next appointment. We screamed: we got stuck.

Survivor: Metro Manila

I’m twenty-six years old. Never married. Single. Smart. Employed. Chubby. Funny. Thrifty. Extroverted. Intelligent… no wait, I said that already. Laid-back. Short. Friendly (I suppose the clue to this one was the previous description “extroverted.” Duh.). But I’ve never really been independent.

I’m not like Chrissy or Curiosity Killer who have travelled extensively and worked vigorously in various parts of the globe. My life’s simple – but not idiotic or boring, contrary to what Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie seem to think of the lives of the world’s regular Joes and Janes. Recently, however, I’ve made a move to change all that: I moved out of my parents’ comfortable home in Quezon City and into a semi-expensive flat (read: scrimping and saving are absolutely necessary for an ordinary yuppie to be able to afford this room on a monthly basis) in Makati City.

Ours is a conservative society: normally, a child does not move out of his/her parents’ house here in the Philippines, unless s/he is getting married already or earning more than the parents do. Sometimes, people who’ve moved out of their respective parents’ homes in their college years or during their early early adulthood even move back into the parents’ nest once they do tie the knot. Causes: simple. Money’s hard to come by. Blue-collar work, and sometimes, even white-collared ones here basically do not support a middle-income lifestyle. Relying on mom and pop is sooo much more convenient than the alternative.

However, I consciously chose the alternative last September – and, so far, I can say that it’s been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. On my own, I’ve learned to survive. “Grocery Shopping 101” is a course that’s proved to be extremely valuable. Key lesson learnt: “detergent” is quite different from “dishwashing liquid.” The former is normally in granule form, and is, therefore, difficult to use to wash china with (even if they were hand-me-downs, china is still china is still china.) “Cooking for One” was also an important course. Key lesson learnt: one kilo of ground pork does not equal one serving. “Cutlery” covered some pretty interesting lessons, too. Here, my key lesson was that dull knives are way more dangerous than sharp ones. Why? I have no idea. But I’ve got the evidence of this fact bleeding on my laptop.

(Insert ‘bathroom-break’: got to go stop the bleeding. Note to self: include ‘band-aids’ in the grocery list for tomorrow.)

“Cooking 104” was exciting though. Many lessons learnt there. One, don’t just leave defrosted marinated meat inside the refrigerator for three straight days. They’ll give you intense indigestion that’ll send you straight to the hospital when you cook and eat them on the fourth day. Two, green eggs, albeit their emotional significance to you and Mr. Schmidt, are not good for you. Again, you’ll save another trip to the doctor’s if you simply throw them out. Three, store-bought pasta cannot be boiled until the water completely evaporates. That would only result in a ruined pan and, more importantly, a starving stomach, which would have to be assuaged with your umpteenth burger from McDonald’s this week. Four, look at bottle labels before you grab whatever’s inside those said bottles and use it on a dish/beverage. For instance, black vinegar used in adobo tastes grandiosely gross, and two teaspoons of salt instead of sugar in your morning instant coffee is just pure unpleasantness. I could go on and on, but I fear that I’ll just make you (1) get off your chair in disgust, or (2) barf.

Being on my own was not a hunky-dory-peachy-keen experience. Hoo boy, I haven’t even written about “Bathroom Cleaning 4.1” yet. :-) But, there’s still time to experiment, learn, enjoy, and survive in this rented condo unit. My lease ends in June, and I’m already begging my landlord to not kick me out yet. Seriously, I did not mean to set off the fire alarm on my second night. I love it here. Life is good.

Friendship faux pas

I made a booboo a few weeks ago, and I can’t seem to forget about it. A friend, whom I thought was a good friend, is still pissed off at me about it. Yeah, yeah, sure – she recently relayed to a mutual friend of ours that she’s “okay” with me already, but my female gut instinct tells me that she still thinks I’m the pus that feeds the fungus at the bottom of an extremely mucky and muddy pond (just gotta paraphrase that line from Julia in My Best Friend's Wedding; it seems so darned appropriate at this time).

I’ve analysed and re-analysed this black hole that I’m stuck in. WTF happened?! I set up a dinner with my friends one boring Wednesday evening. Two, Jane* and Kiwi* immediately replied. Both said yes to the invitation. So, I meticulously noted down the date on my calendars (that’s how obsessive-compulsive I can be – having several calendars, I mean: on my MS Outlook, my mobile phone, and my PDA) and wait for Wednesday.

The day arrived. I texted Jane and Kiwi to confirm the dinner. Kiwi texted back: “Sorry. Am sick @ home. Can’t believe it! But y’all still have fun tonight.” Jane never bothered to reply. Another friend, Diane*, texted me that same afternoon, wanting to hook up with us, too. So, I called Jane’s office to again confirm her attendance. No answer. “Her mobile, perhaps?,” I thought. Nope, no answer there either – just a pre-recorded network voice message saying she can’t be reached. Hence, I texted Diane back, “Sorry, sweetie. Dinner not pushing thru tonight. Jane hasn’t confirmed anything, and Kiwi’s sick @ home. See yah soon anyway!”

I arranged a dinner date with another friend, then, and had a blast, sans Jane, Kiwi, and Diane. At eleven o’clock that evening, though, I checked my mobile, which has been buried inside my gym bag. Hmmm… Seven missed calls and eleven messages… the latter, unfortunately, are mostly composed of Jane’s ire (no pun intended). Last message went something like this: “Where are you?! I’ve been waiting for more than an hour here already! I’m going home. If you wanted to cancel, you should have contacted me first.”

WHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!!!! Bu… bu… but I did! So I texted her again once… twice… three times. Two apologetic text messages were sent that night. Another one was sent the next morning. I tried to make the apology sound serious. Tried to make the situation sound funny, yet the apology sincere. Tried to be assertive about it. Tried to reach out and be friends again – after making an apology. And, also tried to take any and all blame for what had transpired… Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Pfffft. That’s what I got as an answer from Jane.

I feel like the queen of all bad bad bad people in this cruel world. I told myself that I’ve done my part and that I should get over it. If Jane can’t see past it, then that’s the end of our friendship, I suppose. It sounds so girly and high-school-y, to me, but what the heck do I know? I’ve accepted this major faux pas, acted on it, and charged it to experience, but it still irks.

Therefore, this is the key lesson I’ve learned and wish to publish in blog history: check your damn mobile phone every five seconds, so you don’t feel like crap if ever somebody does miraculously call or text you especially when you least expect it. Your version of Jane would sure appreciate it.


*Names changed, for the sakes of propriety and of mine.

Fitness Angst

There’s nothing more annoying than someone else invading your private place. Now, as to how you define what your “private place” is, well, I’d say it depends. For instance, I can say that the condo unit I rent and pay for on my own is my private place, but my mom would highly disagree. She forces me to share it with my two NBSB (no-boyfriend-since-birth) sisters, which is, oftentimes, a deterrent to me, since I can’t just invite anyone over any time. It’ll be kinda awkward if I suddenly bring a guy I’ve newly met from a café over to the condo, and the sisters are there. It’ll be doubly awkward if they tell our mom embarrassing situations such as one cited above.

I also consider the bathroom a sacrosanct space. I mean, who’d want a person entering the restroom when you’re doing the number two??? But there’s a HUGE difference between a private bath/restroom and a public one. I don’t know about you, but I’d sure as hell don’t want to anger a “big momma” look-alike if she wants to use the vanity mirror above the sink I’m using – hence, I’d only take a few seconds to rinse my hands with soap and water and get out of her way as soon as possible. My mama did teach me some manners when I was growing up. One of her first lessons was: don’t deliberately try and piss off anyone who’s bigger, meaner, and bitchier than you are. I took that lesson to heart. Somehow, though, other mamas never managed to teach their daughters this very valuable lesson.

All this angst about “respect for others’ private space” grew out of my frustration with my co-members in the gym that I’ve recently signed up with. Now, this isn’t one of those cheap neighbourhood gyms that I’m now a “proud” member of – in fact, it’s one of the largest and most well-known ones worldwide (its advertisements even have Hollywood celebrities as spokes-models, e.g., Matt Damon, Vin Diesel, The Rock, Janet Jackson, and so on and so forth), so I had some pretty damn high expectations.

I’m cool with the equipment, the trainers, and such. But it’s just those other gym users that make me want to pull their hair out strand by strand.

Think about this scenario: you want to use a particular gym equipment to exercise a targeted area of your body – let’s say, your abs. So, you go to the ab machine, right? But there’s someone there – a perky little woman with abs flat enough to grill porterhouse steaks on is already using it. You think, “Fine. I’ll come back in five minutes…” Five minutes later, you go back. She’s still there, so you try to go find something else on your exercise programme to do. You go back again after another ten minutes, but SHE’S STILL FRIGGING THERE! And the thing is, she’s only used the machine at least twice (each set of ab crunches takes only about a minute to do) in the last 15 minutes! The rest of the time, she just sits on the machine and stare into space!!!!!!!!!!!!! WTF?! And, it’s the gym’s policy and the general users’ unspoken rule to not disturb anyone who’s doing his/her thing on the exercise floor. What are you gonna do? Skip the whole ab thing, and hope to god that you can make up for it the next time you go to the gym.

Now imagine yourself hitting the showers after an hour-long gym routine. Just ignore the greedy people who have dumped their clothes in the changing rooms (even though they’re not inside the rooms to change yet). Strip naked beside your locker (in full view of the unkind vanity mirrors), and cross your fingers that no one whispers about your abs that didn’t get freakin’ exercised that morning. Get a quick shower (coz you never know what cooties you may be getting from the shower area’s floor) and change. Now, try and use one of the two hair dryers that the gym has provided for its members. Go ahead, try. No luck? Ah, that’s probably because two gal-pals are still using both hair dryers while chatting up a storm. Don’t even bother waiting. They’re still gonna be there 30 minutes later, blow drying their super-mega-extra-unconditioned-long-thick-unruly hair while talking about how unsatisfied they are in their sex lives. On another day, you might get lucky and snatch up some precious time to quietly blow dry your own hair before you go to work. Pray to whatever-god-there-may-be that there’s not another person sitting on the chair next to you, drying her own hair. For sure, at some point during her drying routine, she’d whip her hair back and hit you in your face dead-on. Not a nice thing to experience. Believe me - I’ve got a few “hair whiplash” scars on my face that I’m still suffering from.

All these horror stories are making me feel ill about the thought of going to the gym. But, then I think, I spent a whole month’s hard-earned salary on this damned gym membership, and it’s going to be a hard pill to swallow if I stop now. So, fitness angst aside, I’ll huff-and-puff my way back to that gym, and by-george, you’ll see me pushing that skinny bitch off of the ab machine, dumping my stuff in the changing room before I even hit the gym, and pulling the hair of the next girl who uses the communal hair dryer for longer than 15 minutes. It’s plain ethics, man, just ethics.