“‘CAUSE you’re a sky, ‘cause you’re a sky full of stars/I’m gonna give you my heart/’Cause you’re a sky, ‘cause you’re a sky full of stars/’Cause you light up the path.”
That’s the Coldplay song that made me stay for a while at the store, singing along while window-shopping. And then I found an extra-small top. Wishfully thinking for this to be my size, I went to the fitting room where I discovered I had to be a contortionist so my head could squeeze into the blouse’s tiny neck hole. Which may sound X-rated now: head? hole?
On my way out of the fitting room, someone else was also there, and she was checking herself out in the mirror while trying on a dress. Her male companion then told her that she needed an internal for the dress. I was like, Internal as in internal audit?
Oh, he was referring to innerwear. And I had to Google that.
My minute brain was also loading that day. After visiting two supermarkets to look for the most delish meats that I could devour with passion, I also couldn’t remember the word for that thing you wear inside the dress, I even had to ask the store’s sales staff who then said, Sando and half-slip. Okay. Thanks.
Trying on clothes is now fun for me. Puera buyag. But for at least 40 years, it was not. I was a fat baby, and my weight kept on increasing each year. To simplify the computation of my body weight in pounds, I only had to add 100 to my current age. So, at 12 years old, I was 112 pounds. At 22, 122 pounds. At 32, 132 pounds.
But at 42, I was 160 pounds I think. That’s when I panicked: Wait a minute, it’s supposed to be 142, not 160. But did that stop me from eating a lot? Nope. I thought 42 was still young and that imagined youth convinced me I was healthy despite the body fat.
The smart weighing scale continues to inform me of my daily body score, body age, weight, etc. It’s like trying to pass a test, kind of that teacher who gives the class a surprise quiz and tells them to get wam-port sheet of paper.
At a dinner event I attended recently, someone younger told me, Maayo gani kaya pa nimo magbilar. It was only 9 pm, not exactly the time considered as bilar. So, I looked at her while thinking, Oh, the young ones who believe they will stay young.
FYI, I can still stay awake and aware after midnight.
But when I’m home, I’d rather sleep early. That requires dinner before sundown, no gadgets after 8 pm, and reading a book before sleeping. For now, that book is Jordan Peterson’s “12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos.”
For the recent Cebu trip, I brought Amy Schumer’s “The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo.” But I wasn’t able to read much after eating high-carb goodies and dealing with their side effects. Whew.
I already know the antidote to emotional eating—no, it doesn’t involve a head and a hole—but when it’s vacation time, the diet also takes a vacation.
