Manila Standard, 16 August 2001, p.24
A month after
I started writing this column last year, a single friend of mine highly
recommended Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding. Moments
after our conversation, I rushed to the nearest bookstore and got a copy. It
took me a while but I did get to finish the book and boy, could I relate big
time?
Last week, I
saw the movie version with Renee Zellwegger as Bridget, Hugh Grant as
“perfect” (and gorgeous) boyfriend Daniel Cleaver, and Colin Firth as
family friend Mark Darcy (Bit of trivia: Hugh Grant and Colin Firth were
actually mentioned in the book as themselves!).
While Bridget
had her share of escapades with her men, her story also focused mainly on the
life of a thirty-something singleton. In so many ways as I watched the movie,
it was like watching myself rot away as a single person. I could just hear
myself singing, “All by myseeeelf. Don’t wanna be all by myself,” as I gulped
leftover wine. It was just too familiar.
—FRIDAY 10 AUGUST
124
lbs. (v. depressing), alcohol units 4 (good), cigarettes 15 (v.g. considering
drinking session), calories close to a million (as usual), workout hours 0,
gummy candies 5 (bad), minutes spent fantasizing about current PB (potential
boyfriend) 296, minutes spent justifying that PB is not worth it 220, actual
lengthy conversations about PB 5, flirty text messages 9
7 a.m. Woke up but still recovering from a hectic
Thursday and hangover from Wednesday. Trying to convince myself infected with
virus, convenient excuse not to go to work.
7:30 a.m. Finally, convinced myself to get up with the
thought that tomorrow is Saturday. Not that it’s special. In fact, translates
to dateless night, overeating and watching the rerun of Sex and the City.
Just can’t get over the fact that I can sleep for as long as I please tonight.
Tried on skirt
but stomach bulging from overeating the night before (pigged out in an
“eat-all-you-can” Japanese restaurant with ex-roomie). Rejoiced that employees
allowed to dress down on Fridays. Wore tight pants to hide tummy. Miniskirt not
an option today.
9 a.m. Tried to get mind to work and not float away
to further psychoanalyze PB. Can’t wait for day to end. Until then, had to work
till my eyes popped out.
Still wondered
most of the day whether vague text message received from PB is actually an
invitation to go out. Consulted friends who had opposing views, one of which is
to try the un-available ice-queen mantra. V.g. advice. Not too sure though if
it would work with PB, the perfect egotistical maniac. Gorgeous maniac though.
Honestly
getting tired of postponing engagements just to make self available for PB.
Enough already! I will be the ice-queen of the world! No more waiting! I’ve had
it! I am my own woman, mistress (doesn’t sound right, does it?) of my fate,
captain of my soul! From now on, no man will rule or screw up my schedule!
Looked at schedule and there was nothing much to screw up. V. pathetic.
Discussed
issue lengthily with friends who cautioned about me being construed as chasing
after PB. “Men can be mean,” male friend said, “even meaner than women when
they talk about their conquests.” V. bad, he said.
Minutes later,
same male friend offered to concoct a scheme for PB and I to be together but
asked for Honda CRV in return. Told him to sod off until such time that I can
swing a free ticket to Hong Kong. Intend to keep CRV for self but think could
spare a free plane ticket, but only if PB becomes my boyfriend.
Thought almost
instantly if really did want PB to be boyfriend. We have never even gone out
alone. Not even once, for heaven’s sake! I don’t even know shit about him. What
the hell was I thinking?
Honestly,
haven’t thought about it seriously. Just wanted someone to think about, I
guess, in the absence of someone to think about seriously. Guilty about being
carried away with conversation. Nothing more interesting to talk about really.
If I let go of
the ice-queen act, male friend warned that word might go out that I was
pathetic, sad, and desperate. Didn’t care. I was already pathetic and sad. Not
that desperate though, I hope.
Might blow up
PB’s ego to gargantuan proportions, he added. Didn’t care either. PB already
has bloated ego.
Already talked
too much about PB. Getting prepared to have a sign on forehead saying,
“Pathetic, sad, and sometimes desperate single person yearning for attention.”
6 a.m. Still no definite invitation from PB, not
even a simple text message. Confused bastard. Contemplating on accepting
equally single female friends’ invitation to hang out in my flat for the night,
which could actually be an excuse to make PB feel I am busy and unavailable.
Fantasized about confrontation, telling him to stop jerking me around and
throwing ice-cold water at his face to cool him off. V.g. fantasy. Tee hee hee.
Got my mantra,
pretended to be glamorous and extremely busy woman, and told him I was busy. Regretted
the move two minutes later. Darn the ice-queen! Double shit! PB acted like he
didn’t care. Convinced myself he was only maintaining an image in front of his
friends but was actually bleeding with regret inside. Poor PB. Poor me.
Confirmed with
friends’ planned hang-out.
Just before
midnight. Couldn’t concentrate on repetitive conversations about singlehood,
relationships, and “love” but occasionally justified it was okay to be single
in 30s, gulping alcohol units in between sentences.
Received generic
text message from sweet friend saying goodnight, which actually made me sappy.
Texted back to say goodnight. Continued to drink.
Couldn’t stand
anymore hearing myself and equally single friends talk about how singlehood is
such a cool thing while cursing the world for not producing enough decent
single men for each one of us. Splitting headache just by the corner.
Cheers to
being single after 30! Alcohol and nicotine level went up. Glad to be in
company of good friends. Tried desperately to forget about PB. Pretended I did.
Actually did for about an hour. But I miss him. I hate him. V. confused.
—from the
Diary of Karenina Yaptinchay, spinster and lunatic
-30-