Someone once said that as you grow older, your friends grow fewer. Looking back, it does seem true, along with the fact that you also grow more serious and settled. I wonder how accurate these observations are, and I start to scroll in my mind through the many instances that validate them. There were Pam’s separate high school and college barkadas, as examples. She used to meet with them almost every other week two or three years back, until pregnancy came and made her focus on the family again. There were drinking sprees, late nights out, badminton, and general wholesome fun. Now she hardly gets to see them at all.
In my case, I remember my huge bunch of college tropa, distinct from other literati friends who have already published their own books and won awards. Nowadays, I haven’t drunk in ages, haven’t gone to Greenbelt or Glorietta in months, and the few old friends that I see or talk to briefly discuss about project proposals and concepts or working life in general.
All these thoughts come when I observe our company president and also the head of our pr group. They’re both in their mid 40s, came from the same school (UP), and in fact were fraternity brods. They’re mostly all business, going out for meetings, having discussions, wearing huge polo shirts and barongs. They’re far from being stiffs though, because they can be quite goofy at times, especially in an atmosphere dominated by us mostly younger (or at least younger thinking) set. But both seem to have long passed the stage when they can be casually led to eat out or go to the mall for the sake of camaraderie, to just chill.
Maybe there’s no choice for all of us but to go in that direction. Little by little, we’re shedding away or at least limiting the frequency of non-business-related bonding, the aimless walks in the malls with friends. And we begin the regard the idea of “killing time” as the quickest way to dying with limited accomplishments. We want to make something of ourselves, and so the barkada has drifted away, getting in touch from once a week to once a month to once a year.
That’s also the reason why I felt the need to move out of my previous PR agency. True, it was full of fun, it was full of camaraderie. But these elements soon overwhelmed my love for the work itself. And I’ve long learned beforehand that when fun and friendship are the only things that keep you in you office, there’s already something wrong.
So have I dug myself in with too much work? Am I just stressed out or undergoing a midlife crisis? If it’s the latter, can it already be called midlife if you’re 35? I’ve drawn the line between having fun and getting serious with work and I think I’ve achieved that balance in my current workplace. But perhaps lately I’ve become too serious, too set in earning more, too eager with the thought of meeting clients and their requirements.
I’d love the thought of having another drinking spree till the early morning hours, like the one I had with my officemates months ago. I’d like the thought of chilling out in the mall, but only if I won’t feel guilty about the time and money that I might waste on just myself.
There are lots of other outlets, thankfully, after work. It’s just a question of preference, really. And accepting what you have, dreaming of greater things, and making sure you’re living a fuller, richer life instead of just, well, killing it with idleness and too much chatter.
I hope blogging doesn’t fall in the latter category.
* * *
Everyone at the office was still having a lively discussion about Pacman’s victory yesterday when suddenly Bebeth, our traffic coordinator, approached me with this letdown: I had to fork up 200 bucks, along with all the others who lost on the bet between Miami Heat and the Dallas Mavericks. Ouch. Most of us have forgotten about that one already.
That's enough to make me pout, especially with my ever-tightening financial belt, and more so because I still had some hefty bills to pay, like my parking slot and internet service provider. But then, it was all in the spirit of fun, as well as fairness. To begin with, it was foolish of me to have voted in a game of which I had zero knowledge whatsoever. If that had been badminton, then I would have had a more in-depth opinion and emerged as the bet collector, haha.
Shortly before lunch I did manage to sneak off to the bank to pay my bills, feeling somewhat guilty of having prioritized the payment of my losing bet instead of the more imperative things in life. I imagine Dulce, the owner of the condominium-parking slot, which I pay for monthly, would soon be raving again over my delay. The long queue at the bank made me squirm with impatience, for I imagine my officemates gobbling up my share of the crispy pata and barbecue. Fortunately, I came back just in time, and even managed to make the most of my share. And, gathered around the conference-cum-dining table , we got to enjoy discussing Pacquiao’s fight some more.
Now I’ve used up my nap time. Burp!
Though I slept around 3 AM, I woke up easily with a buzzing in my ears: Pacquiao, Pacquiao, Pacquiao. It was the day being drummed by the media for months now. No matter how far off a date is, sooner or later, well, it’ll come to your doorstep.
It’s always a pleasure to have Pacquiao on TV. I’m not just being nationalistic, or even sports minded. My pleasure is grounded on domesticity. It’s one of the very few instances when my whole family is gathered in the living room, sharing the buzz and ecstasy of it all. A good movie does it too, but we haven’t bought a new vcd or dvd for a long time now. Caehl and his nanny adding to the excitement on the tube couldn’t have made our little Sunday any finer.
Incidentally, watching the great Pacman’s rock-hard physique -- especially after he recovered from that unbelievable third round scare when he was pummeled and visibly stunned by Larios’ punches -- the words of Inquirer sportswriter Recah Trinindad came to my mind. It was an excerpt from Pacific Storm, probably a book he’s working on, and it was titled “The Geography of Pain.” The end paragraphs of this short article offer a treasured glimpse of how Manny became the “Pacman.”
There’s also this story of how Pacquiao, in his early fights in Manila, would go without food, very thirsty, after heavy workouts in the gym. One keen-eyed broadcaster swears Pacquiao, despite his aching, empty stomach, would not be caught tagging along or hanging around when friends or teammates moved out to eat. Not a coin in his pocket, but Pacquiao strictly stuck to himself, staying away lest somebody took pity and offered to buy him a free snack. He would not squander his quiet dignity. He would not allow people to label him what’s called in the vernacular a “patay gutom” or shameless parasite. That early, Pacquiao was keenly charting the geography of pain, perfecting a nameless antidote to the disease called a slow knockout.
There’s also this story of how Pacquiao, in his early fights in Manila, would go without food, very thirsty, after heavy workouts in the gym. One keen-eyed broadcaster swears Pacquiao, despite his aching, empty stomach, would not be caught tagging along or hanging around when friends or teammates moved out to eat.
Not a coin in his pocket, but Pacquiao strictly stuck to himself, staying away lest somebody took pity and offered to buy him a free snack. He would not squander his quiet dignity. He would not allow people to label him what’s called in the vernacular a “patay gutom” or shameless parasite.
That early, Pacquiao was keenly charting the geography of pain, perfecting a nameless antidote to the disease called a slow knockout.
Nothing short of admirable. I can’t wait to have another little Sunday with my family come November, when Pacquiao goes for the third match with El Terrible Morales.
