Ad Infinitum

There are days that I get terribly tired of all the self-centeredness around me, all I want to do is just shut myself off from the rest of the world. Today is one of those days.

I realize that I’m not the good listener (or the saint) that the whole world thinks me to be. I guess I’m just always too polite to show disinterest or to outrightly brush someone off. I’ve mastered the art of listening so well that I can usually react with "Is that so" or "That’s so bad" at the right moment even if my mind has wandered off elsewhere, and I’ve no freaking idea what the other person is talking about. 

What disappoints me the most are these people whom we call friends who suddenly remember to write or call when they’re having problems or are in their "self-absorbed" moments. When everything’s all right, they’re forever so busy they never have time to write an e-mail, even just to say hi. Then there are those that I don’t even consider friends who come running to me for favors and help like I owe it to them. Which always makes me feel tempted to say "I don’t want to help you because we are not friends to begin with. If you want to use me, please consider employing some style and a little subtlety. Also, sudden flattery and friendliness will only make me leery which decreases the already small chance of me making your problem my problem."

I should partly blame myself for always being so generous with my time and "ears" that everyone seems to think that all I do is sit here waiting to hear their stories or do them favors. Well for the record, I don’t. Now if you think this is about you, then it probably is in which case I hope you do something about it. If you’re not the subject in question yet insist that you are, feel free to charge it to vanity. It is the kind of conceit that I can still take. And please forget the chutzpah of confronting me if you’re the star (or one of the stars) of this post because I just said that I am a polite person so there’s no way I’d humiliate another by confirming the worst about himself. There’s still this thing called instrospection so use it instead.

I go here when I’m strapped for cash.

Hamburg for the humbugs?

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Forgiven but not forgotten.

Three years ago, I could have fooled myself into believing that within me lay the fountain of youth when I was thought to be my younger brother’s younger sister. He is seven years younger than I am.

Like a cruel joke, I was mistaken for his mother barely three years after.

And just yesterday, this promo girl for some children’s product asked if I have kids at home. That’s her way of saying " you look like a mother so I will sell you these things that might interest your kids."

One time my cousin joked that since there seems to be no chance for her little daughter to be the flower girl on my wedding (meaning I’ll never get married anyway), she’ll just reserve the bridesmaid post for me when the little girl grows up and gets married.

All these epiphanies about how old I already am scare me. I do not really worry much about looking old ( but I did when they thought I was my brother’s mother!), and hardly about my single-blessedness. I worry about letting each year pass by without getting anything done — not even the very simple task of reading all the books that I’ve bought. My age has become directly proportional to my laziness. And the only thing I’m good at is to harp on it; just like the way I deal with my weight.

Clearly, I am having the pre-birthday blues which I have every year. Next year, I will just copy this whole piece and post it on this same blog a few days before my birthday.

On a lighter side, I go here (The Guardian called it a decent alternative to Hallmark schmaltz) when I need some dose of funnies. Please do not send me any e-card unless it is from them. I am done with sentimental stuff. Now make me laugh.

Quote of the day:

"Sometimes I’ve been caricatured as this emasculating wife. Do you think anybody could emasculate Barack Obama?"  - Michelle Obama

I got a new haircut today, and I look like John Travolta in Hairspray — only older, uglier and without the bangs.

… and it’s not the hairdresser’s fault.

I don’t know what to do now.