Feels so much like high school

It was my high school ka-barkada’s 18th birthday a couple of days ago, and to celebrate it she treated me and everyone else in our circle of friends to some food and drinks at a bar in Eastwood last night. My best friend Angelica and I arrived at the bar together (forgot the name) and upon seeing everyone else, we all shrieked as though we haven’t seen each other in ten years, which is what the past seven months pretty much felt like. Kisses, hugs. They told me how nice and long my hair looks like now. (Nobody said that I lost weight.) Some girls from high school who never really liked me and vice versa were there, and we looked each other like, “Oh, it’s you.” I noticed that two of my friends brought their boyfriends with them, their boyfriends since God knows when. I wonder if Jason and I will last for that long. At least their boyfriends are only cities away.

We had a table outside at first, but from out of nowhere it began to rain, so we moved upstairs. It was dark, crowded, and a little smokey in spite of the no-smoking laws. In spite of all the people, a waiter managed to get us a table for 20. After the table was cleared, we sat down and started swapping stories.

“My sister (a freshman in our high school), has Ms. Labrador for English,” my best friend said. “And Ms. Labrador was like, ‘Are you related to Angelica dela Cruz?’ When Kathy said yes, Ms. Lab asked what college I’m at right now. And when my sister said that I go to UP, her eyes grew as big as saucers!”

I laughed. “Serves her right for giving us Ds in English class! I bet she’d die if I told her what my grades in English are like now.”

I turned to Maricris, who was sitting next to me. “So what’s Assumption like?” For reasons I’m not entirely sure of, most of the girls in my high school barkada ended up in Assumption.

“Oh, it’s kind of like high school but harder,” Maricris replied.

“Isn’t that a little…boring?”

“Not really. I’m having a great time there.”

No offense, but if I woke up one morning and learned that I would spend the next four years of my life surrounded by girls, silenced by nuns, and forced to wear uniforms, I would totally freak out.

“How bout you, how’s Ateneo?”

“Ateneo? Oh…I’m failing Math.”

As I sat there and listened to them talk, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. None of them seem to have a single thing to worry about; they sleep at the dorm, they play billiards, they go to malls. But for me, there’s always a paper to finish, homework to do, a test to study for. My advice? Don’t go to Ateneo if you spent half your high school life sleeping in class and the other half cramming for quizzes or cheating during quizzes.

Because we felt a little out of place (which had a lot to do with the guys my ka-barkadas brought with them), my best friend and I went to The Basement to pimp ourselves to the more good-looking variety of the opposite sex. Unfortunately, about half of Quezon City had the same idea. The place was so packed, you can’t stand in one spot for more than a minute; there’s always a throng of people pushing against you from the lack of space. Since you’ll probably die from suffocation if you stay put, you obviously have no other choice but to go with the flow. We tried the dance floor, but that too was so crowded that dancing became downright impossible. Which really sucked, because the music was pretty good; none of that Hot In Here crap. There were some cute guys around, but because of the human tidal wave and the loud loud music, meeting anyone was impossible too. So much for that. Angelica and I made our way out of the tiny club thirty minutes later, gasping for air. Talk about a total waste of money.

Since the two of us didn’t feel like dishing out more money for our feet to get stepped on in another crowded bar, we decided to just leave. After saying goodbye to our friends, Angelica and I went back to my house, and we talked for another half hour before calling it a night. She tried to wake me up when she left at 7 a.m. and although I wanted to get up and walk her to the door, I could only manage to open one eye for a brief second. Woke up to another day of studying at noon with stiff shoulders and a headache. Welcome to the real world.

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So little time, so much to do

I don’t understand how my roommate can have the time to cook dinner, read a trashy romance novel, and watch hours and hours TV afterwards while I don’t even have time to eat dinner, read a textbook in advance, much less watch any TV. I don’t understand why I feel so stressed and harassed over schoolwork while my blockmates just sit around the caf playing Magic the Gathering without a care in the world. I don’t know why I’m spending so much time over my academics when I’m not even aiming to be in the dean’s list. I’m doing this all just so I can pass. Argh. Sometimes I feel like I’m the dumbest person at school.

I’m pulling my first all-nighter in spite of the fact that I have a 7:30 class the next day. I guess this really is the real world I’ve been dying to be part of during the past two years of my life. Maybe I shouldn’t have been too hasty.

Well, wish me luck.

WARNING: Too much information. Skip if you must.

Never again will I have my armpits waxed at a salon. Ever. And I strongly advise that you do the same.

I always thought that waxing is the best way to remove underarm hair because not only does all the hair get removed, it gets finer and the skin becomes whiter with time. The latter only happens if the waxing is done proerply. If you don’t remove the wax strip carefully, the skin could get burned and you might as well include all your sleeveless tops among the things you want to sell at your family’s annual garage sale.

I’ve always done the waxing myself through the use of those wax kits that you can buy at the mall. They’re all right, but a lot of the hair still stays. I thought that someone at the salon would do a better wax job than I ever could, and at first I was happy about it. I could raise my arms with all the confidence in the world because not a single hair remained. Sure, the skin on my underarms were kind of sore for a couple of days but beauty is pain. Right?

WRONG.

Because I woke up to a sunny morning, I decided to wear a cute sleeveless top to school today. As I was combing my hair in front of the mirror, I saw something that made me stop, shriek, and rush to the closet for a quick clothes change. My underarms were…they were….*sob*….darker than I would like them to be! Way, way, waaaaaaaaay darker than I would like them to be!!!

And because they are so dark, words cannot describe how disgusting they look! At the state they’re in, I don’t think I could ever wear anything without sleeves for the rest of my life. And that really sucks because I love wearing tank tops and sleeveless tops, espcially during the summer. Shit! What the hell am I supposed to wear during the summer now–sweaters? Wetsuits?

Now half of my wardrobe is unwearable! I’m out of sleeved tops for the week! And so much for the sexy strip tease I was planning on doing when I finally have sex! I don’t care what happens, I’m doing it with a t-shirt on. AAAARRRRRRGGGHHH!!!! I can’t fucking believe this! I’m going to have to contend with tan lines on my arms from the t-shirts I wear, and I can’t stand tan lines! Words cannot describe how incredibly upset I am about this! This really SUCKS!!!

Lesson of this story: love your armpits while they’re still in their natural color. Raise your arms in the air and don’t be afraid to show them off. Because you never know when they’re going to turn dark. And when they do, it’s going to be a sad, sad day.