musings of a despondent heart
I couldn’t resist watching another HBO movie about a single, homely, middle-aged woman-with some middle age crisis, I surmise. She is smart. She proves her smartness when she becomes a basketball coach-though she knows little about. The idea of it sparked my interest, it was still early, CWTS Culminating Rites were three hours away-it occurred to me how watching Sunset Park wouldn’t do my day any harm. So I watched it. After roughly an hour and thirty-four minutes, I couldn’t cry my catharsis out but that doesn’t change a good impression I have on the film. Me likee! It told me a lot about winning and losing. I knew what these two words felt like-to win and, more importantly, to lose.
Next, CWTS Culminating activity. I concealed any dismay on April Marzan, my leader, for being uncertain about the real time for the assembly. Still, no harm done, because our group was there ahead of time. During the awardings, my unconscious was expecting my name called out. Is this how frustrated I am for recognition? Since the pageant, since thesis? Right then and there, I was enduring the throes of self-pity again. You didn’t have time to enjoy, you just crammed your CWTS requirements, you just finished them for the heck of it. I mean I did put my heart into the activities-the GK, the Insti Visit, the card, the portfolio-but everybody in the group has been too busy that I wasn’t informed of the right place and the right time of showing up or submitting. What this activity basically slapped my face with is the realization: I’m graduating as a crammer and procrastinator, the monster I’ve become by dint of vice.
Lunch-after the culminating rites, I arrived home, peevish and tired. While my voice hasn’t been recovering since the thesis disasters and puyat of the previous weeks. Was this the good year? If a good year means winning a pageant and being awarded for a thesis, then this is not a good year, at least for me. It’s good in that it humanized me by hurting me oh so deeply, with the consecutive defeats I experienced and perhaps will never get over with. I’m human again-no high heels, no head-turning hairstyles, no Fanny Serrano lip liner, no hair rebonding, no pageant title, no “best thesis” award, just a line of one’s in my report card and just me, without the glory I set so high a standard.
I told Ana Valenzuela last night that I’ve had enough with high standards. I’ve had enough of seting high standards for myself-getting that voice range, getting those cum laude-altitude of grades, albeit grades of an ireg, still were grades of a cum laude. I’ve had enough of these standards, more so, I’ve had enough of the pain felt when I don’t measure up to them. It just hurts so badly I can’t even cry. This is worse than heartbreak. But hey! I’m so used to failing that I’ve been made wise by failure.
And I, a procrastinator, a frustrated singer, a frustrated beauty king/queen, expect myself to be the male Elle Woods of Civil Law? Please. Ganito na lang. I won’t care about titles or recognition anymore. I’ll do what I can. That’s it. Do what I can. At least, win or lose, highest, topnotcher or simply passed, it won’t hurt so badly, as it hurts right now. Oh God when is this pain of being ordinary leaving me? I’m just one of those ordinary faces of the graduates of this academic years, I’ll just be one of them. One of them means ordinary to me. I’m ordinary. I’m ordinary. You’re no Song Verona Lee. You’re just an ordinary Ron Rico Oandasan. Snap out of it man! Ordinary. Ordinary, as in lowercase ordinary. Maybe it’ll help if I keep repeating the word. Perhaps I’ll get used to the word and get accustomed to the air of being ordinary.
I’m ordinary.