So I met this guy. The disclaimer my friend sent me the day before said he's the type to So there I was, Friday night, 48 hours of no sleep, engines running on sheer force of will and a bit of optimism.
See, I've decided that my kinda guy would be someone who's been through his fair share of paperbacks and novels, been to PowerBooks for reasons other than meeting someone in air-conditioned luxury. Or, at the very least, could never say he doesn't read unless he has to--with a proud smirk on his face that says: "it's not my fault, I'm normal this way--you're the weird one".
Based on a simple enough criteria(your favorite book), I thought I had it sold with a guy into Sci-fi classics like "I Robot" and "2001: A Space Odyssey". And so I met him, Mr. Smarty Pants, among the pretty pointlessness that adorn Timezone, Gateway.
We played a few rounds. He's into Soul Caliber; I'm into Panda's, who's home is on the other machine across the room that say's Tekken. So we didn't exactly hit it off; couldn't hit it off. I was micro-sleeping every few steps: look-step-snore-look-step-snore.
My good friend and matchmaker Daryl was there, too, telling me about the sexually vague and promiscuous air Gateway mall's been nurturing over the years. And it was true. As proof, a trip to Gateway mall's male bathroom, aside from being one of the first to sport a full-length mirror, is like entering a pre-prom high school bathroom: guys with their hair product and designer scents and fashionably adventurous attire plus the stray guy at the corner who's really just there to take a piss.
But going back, yeah, we didn't exactly hit it off. So we moseyed on to chatting over some grub at the food court, having some coffee + orange juice at the local Coffee Bean, hanging around the shadier(read: infamous) streets of Cubao, then finally catching a Midnight snack at the 24-hour McDo.
He IS smart, but not your usual case of smart. Let's play a game shall we: imagine a really smart guy--the glasses, the smart casual attire on a slight frame, the book/gadget in hand, slick hair. Well, folks, the reality can't be any father from the truth. Mr. Blind-date was actually buff, bronzed and bald--semi-skin head, to be exact.
But the truth about this guy wasn't that he's smart. The intelligence is actually a product of who he really is: a really hyper guy who's lucky enough to have a grandma with a fucking huge library. He's a bibliomaniac who could handle it, and the conversation, though fascinating in its blinding novelty, started to feel like a long-narrative of facts.
He was a human wikipedia. And the wiki-reference is intentional. An encyclopedia doesn't have hyperlinks like he does, we jumped from topic to topic, obscurity to obscurity, and it was a hell of a fun ride. But at some point, even with caffeine, I had to admit I couldn't keep up.
And then he said it, probably while he monologued the details of "Basilisk". An unused word that started with 'C' that fit the sentence so elegantly. Cornice? Colloquial? Cogitate? Whatever it was, though I can never remember the word, I'll never forget how it sliced through me and then subtly, gently pricked my heart.
I fell in love, I think, somewhere in between sleep-deprivation, coffee in my veins, a hangover from last night's drinking and 15 past 2 in the morning. He had this smile that said I knew everything, and it's true. And though he's a little crazy, I see no fault there since I think everyone's a little crazy anyway. He's just a lot more unapologetic about it. Crazy could be just another word for having a personality, actually.
Then I panicked--sheer panic. Everyone's been through it and I'm sure you could sympathize. The rules change when you like someone. You start to really think about what to say, start to really care about what the other guy thinks, start to really embarrass yourself, which I did, repeatedly.
I guess he shook the very foundation on which the little bits and pieces of who i am stand. He's the kinda guy I've always wanted to be, up-front, no bull and smart as hell. He freaked me out, in every sense of the word. The taxi ride after the whole fiasco wasn't as much the trip home as it was just me running as far away as I possibly, affordably can.
He disarmed me. And the morning after, accompanying my parents to Fort Bonifacio on an obligatory trip to the new condo sans another good night's rest, the only word I found that described what I felt was this: unravelled.
I was falling apart. If he was all I ever wanted to be, I started to wonder if I've been going about my life all wrong. I should read more, be more spontaneous, go to gym more often, lay-off the rice. I stood beside the pool in front of the towering condominium that contained our new manse, staring at the bright yellow building across the block, reminding myself of the accomplishments of the past and the assumptions of the future. Bonifacio Technology Center, the place I toiled and celebrated, stood there mocking me.
So I trudged on through the day, checking out the refreshing view from the new apartment; on the way back home, got a haircut and had a few laughs with the barber; picked up my saxophone and practiced "An Affair to Remember" for the wedding next week; got whisked away on Ralph's exotic car to ATC seeking an interesting-enough mother's day present that agreed with a post-Hongkong trip budget; accompanied a friend commission a framing for a Batik tapestry his mom brought from Indonesia; sang at the weekly anticipated mass, practiced on the sax some more, then rounded-off the night with more liturgical and matrimonial chorale singing with smiles and laughs all around.
And then it hit me. A man is the sum of what he does. His actions, being the only explicitly observable characteristic he bears, is the perfect measure of what he is and what he could be. I have accomplished so much in such a short span of time, but the best part was I did it because I wanted to, because I enjoyed it. I am happy where I am, and though I may not seem it, or talk about it as much, I know in my heart that I do what I do with enough soul and passion that I could honestly say I've spent each second of my life like the best of 'em. I live and, in the truest sense of making the most of my humanity, I have lived humanely.
I managed to pry off my friend what the other guy thought of me. He said i was mousy.
But I knew better. I was boring because I could afford to be. If he didn't care to pry, to inspect and wonder at why I've been, seen and done so much and still be so nonchalant about it, he's not worth the effort.
So I met this guy. He was nice, but I knew I could do better.
