the crammer strikes again
With two weeks left before my first full draft for the sort of thesis is due….my skin breaks out, my head hurts, my mouth dries and I haven’t even started…..
I was walking towards my college the other afternoon when lo and behold—I saw my professor whom I’ve been dodging for the past month, coming my way.
I wanted to turn invisible. But I know that no matter how hard I wished, I just won’t. I tried to hide among the plants—like Eve did when she realized that she’s naked. Suddenly, I heard a voice saying, “Estudyante ba kita?” My professor was talking to me. “Huwag ka nang magtago dyan. Asan paper mo?“ Referring to the sort of thesis that I need to do to be able to graduate at the end of the sem—which I have yet to start. I can only give him my signature sheepish grin and wish for a new, functioning brain. How mature.
I wonder if Adam and Eve grinned the way I did when God confronted them about eating the forbidden fruit.
What was I thinking? I am 5 ft., 3 inches tall, and I weigh a whopping hmm…let’s just put it this way, my weight plays around my intelligence quotient. Take note, it’s IQ, not emotional quotient—because if my weight plays around my EQ, I’d probably just be– take your pick between ant and maggot.
Juxtaposed against Mary Kate Olsen, I am huge. Too huge. And too stupid to consider hiding behind some plants in an attempt to get away from a professor.
***
My size never bothered me.
Well at least not until that day of the photo shoot for the book that we’re coming out with.
Despite reminders to wear bright colors, I wore black on the shoot. I’ve always liked the intensity and elegance of black. And yeah, it somehow slenderizes the flabs and bulges here and there.
When it was my turn, the photographer gave me a once over and decided that my shapeless mass of flesh needed a waist.
His assistant clipped on that metal thing-y at the back of my shirt. It’s humiliating how long it took to create that sort-of waist.
When his assistant was done, the photographer looked at me from behind the lenses. He took a deep breath, walked towards me and began adjusting that waist-maker device.
I wanted to smack him on the head and scream: “dude, there’s adobe photoshop for this kind of problem!” Of course I had to control my tongue. Professional artists like the photographer have tempers that I don’t intend to see.
So where did my waist go?
The night before the shoot, I had dinner at yellow cab and finished the ten-inch veggie pizza by myself. Then I tried their pistachio ice cream, which is sold in pint sizes, to the satisfaction of my sweet tooth. I am not exaggerating.
It didn’t happen overnight of course. In my almost two years in grad school, I’ve gained prominence and pounds for eating the most number of pizza slices and finishing off the left overs.
Thankfully, the shoot was done in less than two hours. I rewarded myself with two servings of lasagna, a bowl of potato chips, four mini sandwiches, two squares of food for the gods and two scoops of green tea ice cream.
And the calorie-counter sounded a thundering—KACHING!!
****
Ah, food.
I eat when I’m bored, I eat when I’m upset, I eat when I’m happy—so I pretty much eat all the time because my mood revolves around those states on any given day.
I don’t cook though. Don’t know how to, don’t have the patience for. So I am one of those who contribute tons of money to the coffers of restaurants who serve all those finger-licking, carbohydrate-y, fattening, sodium rich yet unbelievably delicious dishes and desserts.
****
Sometimes I miss the days in my first job when I looked anorexic to my boss. I was told to gain weight, so to help me out I was always brought along to restaurants and allowed to eat all I can. For free.
Of course nowadays, friends and family come up to me recommending some lose weight schemes.
I rejected Atkins’ and South Beach out right because they felt like a prescription for self destruction. And besides, if you think I’m nasty 24/7, I’m nastier when I’m deprived of carbo or missed my sugar fix for the day.
I’m planning to give the low fat, low sodium, low sugar diet a try though. However, with all the cakes given to me on my birthday, and with the pahabol birthday dinners, I don’t know when I’ll get to start.
I still strongly believe though that in a third country like ours, dieting is just plain ridiculous. For one, there are a lot of hungry people out there who would be happy if they could just eat three times (latest studies show that the poorest families only eat a meal consisting of rice and noodles/soy sauce once a day—if they’re lucky). Second, it’s more expensive to go on a diet, unless you intend to fast entirely. Just check the South Beach corner, or the non-fat, sugar-free, low sodium items in the grocery.
***
What do I think about exercise, you ask? Yeah, I thought about it. I watched in Oprah that if I want to lose weight in 12 weeks, I should exercise one hour, eight times a week.
Gad. I don’t even remember having been able to exercise five times since I moved to QC.
How about the gym? Unless gyms start training their clients on good manners and social etiquette, I will never step in a gym ever again. I’ve been traumatized by the people who don’t bother to wipe their stinky sweat from the exercise machines and by some women who go around in the lockers rooms naked. Super gross man.
Get into sports? Umm…I’m too lampa and too sipunin. I mean, I trip myself even while walking in slippers.
***
So what’s a girl got to do?
Got to do with what? On the sort of thesis or on the pseudo-weight trouble?
The line in Othello rings in my head…"Fool, fool, fool!"
Beat the deadline and see the results.
