GIGI GOES GAGA

THE FEAR FACTOR

I used to be fearless.

Or at least I didn't give in as often to the "what ifs?" circling my brain, waiting to push down any or all of my impulses. Nowadays, when I'm about to lunge forward I feel doubt yanking me back by my collar, off my feet, begging me to look again, more closely this time, and figure out if what I want is really the smart thing to do.

If I were always like this I wouldn't be here now. If I never was, my life would be completely different, too. It's impossible to say, however, which version of my life would be more closely aligned with how I always wanted things to be. I'd like to think that I am exactly where I should be, after all. But I'd know this for sure if I didn't give in to fear as much as I have.

For most of the past year I've been in a very dark place, with glimpses of brilliant sun and blue skies sprinkled in-between (and I say this not because I now live in Seattle, where the weather can be described as such). I can't remember the last time I was plagued with so much self-doubt and confusion, both holding me in inertia's firm grip. I know instinctively there are steps I need to take to move myself completely out of this state and into a place where I want to be; the problem is that I keep overthinking my moves and then, when suddenly I'm overwhelmed, I simply curl up in denial.

When did this happen, I ask myself? But of course, I already know. It's been creeping up on me slowly these past 20 years, after my first panic attack on the freeway turned into a full-blown panic disorder that I haven't quite been able to manage. I've written about this before, of how it happened -- lingering illness coupled with emotional stress (from dealing with a violent stalker) and medication -- and how I've had to craft my life around dealing with it. I've seen therapists, psychiatrists, and psychologists; I've taken all kinds of prescriptions for anxiety and depression. I've made all sorts of personal and professional decisions based on trying to manage stress and especially trying to keep my attacks at bay.

So now I'm here, not anywhere near where I thought I'd be today. And yet I strive to remain grateful for all the people and experiences I've encountered along the way up to this point. I am infinitely more patient than I ever used to be, with much more empathy and compassion, especially for the broken, the damaged, and the walking wounded like myself. Perhaps ironically I've discovered that I'm much stronger than I ever thought I was or could be. At the workplace, for instance, I can handle quite a lot without breaking down. When you've dealt with much more, with things that feel like they have life-and-death repercussions, work is just work.

Still, I can't be in this place of fear any more. I've been fighting it off for too long without actually trying to move past it and risk failure if need be. I need to find my passion again, to discover my purpose in life. I need to stop thinking of all the things that can possibly go wrong and have faith that right will win if I truly believe in what I'm doing. I have to believe that when I'm on the right path again, I'll be able to beat the panic attacks that come out of nowhere and I'll be able to get on the freeway and drive anywhere I want to. Anywhere, like I used to.

The Universe, it seems, is telling me it's time. Every day I receive a message -- or maybe I'm just finally listening. The other day, for instance, I was reading a commencement speech by Maria A. Ressa, a journalist. I was expecting to read about integrity, honesty, and fairness. But not this:

"I wish you the courage to fail – because success and failure are two sides of the same coin.  You cannot succeed if at some point you haven’t failed. I’m not the first to say this, but I can tell you I’ve proven it first-hand. You can’t accomplish anything important if you don’t take risks. And you won’t risk if you’re afraid to fail. So "fail fast.  Fail forward. Fail better."

Today my cousin posted this video on her Facebook page.

 

So if you see me falling flat on my face, failing hard, just know it's all part of the plan. I'll get up again.

NAKED EYES

Each day at work I see women in various states of undress, depending on how comfortable they are with being practically naked with a stranger. Within minutes of breaking the ice I have my hands touching the small of their backs, my fingers tugging at straps and fiddling with clasps. I teach them how to lean forward and touch their own bodies, to scoop their breasts into bra cups and show them to their best advantage. But most of all, I think, I simply ask them to embrace their bodies and be a little kinder to themselves.

Because not one woman I've seen -- in all these years that I've seen women without their clothes on -- has been completely happy with her body. I repeat this: not one.

Not even the women who spend more time in the gym than in the kitchen, or even the ones who have been injected, sucked, pulled, and augmented. Somehow, the women I see always manage to find a body part or feature they are wholly dissatisfied with. "I have no boobs!" some wail. "I wish I didn't have such big boobs," others complain. Many see fat where I simply see skin, and some even apologize for it, letting me know that they're working on removing all traces of it in the gym. They say this as if I'm offended by skin less than perfectly taut.They don't see what I see: a woman with a body unlike anyone else's, simply because no one else has lived her life.

If you don't know this about me already, I sell lingerie. My specialty is bra fittings -- which I happen to love because when I'm in the fitting room I'm part-therapist and part-educator, never a salesperson. You see, when a woman has her shirt off in front of me and is feeling pretty vulnerable, the last thing she wants is to feel that I'm trying to take advantage of the situation by selling to her instead of helping her, of taking instead of giving.

I've learned so much about my fellow women doing what I do. I've discovered that many women hold such rigidly dichotomous view of themselves. For instance, when they ask me for a bra they can wear at work, they explain that they want something comfortable enough to wear all day and that will prevent bits and pieces from peeking through their shirt. They usually also mean they don't want anything sexy. When I do get them into a bra that does what they want and also gives them terrific cleavage they're uncomfortable with the view, even if they don't wear shirts cut low enough to actually expose anything south of their collarbones at work. I hear them say their boyfriends or husbands would love to see them in this bra, but...

And they say this as I see them smile at their image in the mirror, their "girls" looking perky and uplifted. But it won't do for work. If only I could tell them that underneath MY shirt here at work, I have pretty amazing cleavage, with some thanks to recent bra technology -- and no one knows but me, and that's good enough as far as I'm concerned.

The other day a woman marched up to me, complaining that none of our bras were comfortable. She told me what size she was, declining a proper bra fitting. When she asked me to take a look and see the "bad fit" of the bra she was wearing I saw immediately that she was at least a 34DD and that she'd had breast augmentation; her breasts were stretched thin, appeared hard and unnaturally round. No judgment here, just an observation. And another: she was wearing the wrong size bra.

I gently explained that a larger cup would provide a much more comfortable fit, especially at the bottom of her breast area, where she said it hurt when she wore our bras. She refused; she insisted she didn't want to wear anything larger than a 34C. I couldn't figure out why someone would choose to wear a too-small bra, especially when doing so caused any kind of pain or discomfort, but I could tell she wasn't going to budge. At this point there was nothing more I could do for her, and she left saying she'd go somewhere else to find what she was looking for.

As I saw her standing there earlier, I realized that she looked like a centerfold model: tall, lean, tanned, blond -- and with massive boobs barely contained by swatches of fabric. Then it hit me like a thunderbolt: that was exactly what she wanted to look like! She wanted to look like that every single day. The problem is that in real life if you wear something too small, you're uncomfortable -- period. If you want to look like the cover of a men's magazine, put on the tiny outfit and take a picture. Then take the damn thing off and wear something sexy but comfortable, something that actually fits right.

Somewhere in the middle of asexual and sex object is a real woman. My job in the fitting room -- as far as I'm concerned -- is to help her see it, if she doesn't already, but through her own eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

A-BRA-CADA-BRA!

Next time you go bra shopping, keep these tips in mind. Here's Part Two of my Mangojuiced.com article* (Part One here).

*This article is dedicated to my dear Tita Linda Kipping Torres, who showed me what a proper bra fitting was a long time ago. Thanks to her, I've stayed well supported all these years -- and can still pass the pencil test with flying colors!

BRA-LLELUJAH!

If you've been following this blog for some time now, you'd know that I'm crazy for pretty lingerie -- bras in particular, but it's all good to me. Which is what led me to my first retail job, as well as my latest. I'm only too happy to talk about the topic, the same way other people like to wax rhapsodic about cars and basketball. In college, for instance, I even taught my close circle of guy friends Lingerie 101. I showed them what a teddy was, as well as a bodysuit, a balconette bra, and even the difference between a waist cincher and a garter belt. The final exam, so to speak, was how to effortlessly remove all kinds of bras (because, as we women know, they have so many different kinds of fastenings). I'd like to think that I taught them well.

So you can imagine how I am when I'm in the fitting room with my clients. It's not enough that I tell them whether something fits or not: I have to explain why and how. If someone's buying a garter belt, I automatically ask if she knows how to attach the stockings on; most of the time I end up showing her how. It's a mission, I tell you. But that's how I am with anything I'm passionate about, I suppose.

So when Katrina of the terrific blog Plus Size Fasyon Mudra asked me to write about finding the right bra for Mangojuiced.com, I jumped on the opportunity. The toughest part about completing the assignment was what to put in and what to leave out; I ended up cutting out much more than I left in. See, I could write an entire book about bras, really -- from the history of bras to bra technology and sizing, the different kinds and styles of bras, and of course problems and solutions regarding fit. Clearly, I am obsessed.

So here's Part One of the final piece I submitted. Please feel free to ask me any questions you have any time!

 

WALK THE DOG

If there's one thing I've learned -- and learned well -- it's that although any kind of change is always tough, if you decide to give in to it and go with the flow you might find that the change was good for you, after all.

For instance, if anyone told me a year ago that I'd be picking up dog poop every day, at least a couple of times a day, I wouldn't have believed it. Sure, you can argue that I did the same thing during the 14 years I took care of my cat Boo -- but you'd be wrong. Simply put, it's really not that bad digging into a sandbox with a long-handled scoop Vs. picking it up on the street with your hand and a thin plastic bag. Huge difference.

So here I am today, taking care of the sweetest 17-year-old foxhound mix, Ozzie. He's arthritic, with hind legs  so weak that he drags them around by sheer force of will. He can barely see or hear, and he never barks (although he used to -- a lot -- or so I've heard). The vet says he has canine alzheimer's, which means I often catch him simply staring into space like he's forgotten where he is and why he's there at all. I also suspect, sadly, that he might be diabetic now, too, because he's drinking water much more than usual. He was already showing signs of incontinence when he first came into my life, but after a health crisis earlier in the year (when I was quite sure I was going to lose him until he bounced back just when I'd given up) it's only gotten worse. There's no saying when and where he's going to pee or poop, which he now does even in his sleep. He always feels bad when he does, but we both know he just can't control himself.

Which means one thing: Ozzie needs to be walked mid-day as well. Mornings and nights were already scheduled around him, but now my afternoons are, too.

It's not easy for him as well, you know. He needs to walk down a flight of stairs consisting of 15 steps before we can even make it out the door, and when we're done he needs to tackle them all over again. We go really, really slowly, always one step at a time, and with each step I cheer him on. I consider every flight up or down a small victory, knowing that sometime soon we will no longer have steps to conquer together.

The biggest surprise for me during these mid-day walks is that I'm finally getting to meet the neighbors. Like the cute one across the parking lot (I'm referring, of course, to his four-year-old German shepherd. Wink.). Or the sweetest dog-loving two-year-old girl who ran across the street to give Ozzie a hug (he seemed fond of her, too). Then there's Mikey, the playful basset hound who likes to lick the wound on my dog's knee.

Today I got to chat with a couple in their late 80s or so; they take daily afternoon walks together. As they walked by us the wife called out, "Hey old man!" and my dog limped a few steps toward them and nuzzled their legs. They've had a few dogs of their own, all who lived to the age of 14, but find it too difficult to have one now. They were quite impressed that Ozzie's made it this long, though they warned me about having to let go soon. We talked a bit about mortality, about enjoying every day we have while we have it. I was talking about treasuring every moment I still have with this old dog; I suspect they were talking about something else. And when we parted ways, they held hands as they walked toward their apartment. I gave Ozzie a huge hug right then and there before turning the corner.

I still don't like having to pick up after the dog; this is one change in my life I don't think I'll ever get quite used to. But walking Ozzie -- now that's different, you see. As long as he walks, my life continues to change in so many special ways.

 

 

 

FULL CIRCLE

About 20 years ago I got my first retail sales job in downtown Los Angeles. It was at a lingerie store -- which was not yet quite the household name it is today -- where the store manager was referred to as the "proprietress" of the "shop" and customers were referred to as "clients." Everything was geared toward creating a very genteel English ambiance: lush floral carpets atop dark hardwood, giant armoires, sparkling chandeliers, vintage-y floral wallpaper, plush loveseats, dressmaker forms outfitted in silk teddies and sheer peignoirs, and soft, classical music streaming gently nonstop.

I'm back where I started -- although not quite so. Everything's changed so much since I left the company as a store manager in 1995 (they dropped the "proprietress" title along with the decor and furnishings even back then). It's one of the biggest, most well-known brands in the world today and the culture is much more professional, definitely all-business, where managers use terms like "leveraging" daily and the tools are much more sophisticated.

I decided to come back because I needed a part-time job while I focus on trying to get more work as a writer and editor and taking classes to update my skills. It doesn't bother me at all that I'm not running the show at the store this time around; I rather enjoy seeing things from this perspective again, like I just gained fresh eyes but get to keep the old ones, too. I suppose my entire life has come completely full circle; I started out living in an apartment, working and studying, writing and editing, falling in love and battling all my fears, and struggling to pay the bills through it all. And here I am again.

In-between the two far points of my life thus far I (in no particular order) got married, owned a home with a garden I built from scratch, had a cat, managed more stores before I switched careers, stopped writing completely and then started a blog, ended the marriage, lost my 18-year-old cat and the home, and moved from LA to Manila to Seattle. The two points may appear similar, but the person I am at this end has been profoundly changed and is almost wholly different from the one at the beginning.

When you're starting over, especially at my age, it helps when you surround yourself with those that remind you of what you've loved most in life, especially when you've been through quite a bit of sadness. So I went home to Manila for a few months to reconnect with my family and closest friends, came back and dusted off this blog, started writing freelance, and got a job at the same company where I once excelled. Now, because I'm grateful for everything I do have (instead of bitter for what I no longer possess) I also found joy, at least wherever and whenever I can find it.

If there's anything I learned through the years, it's that even when you think you're starting over you haven't lost anything you'd once gained. What you have is an opportunity to get it right this time, to do things better, to see old things in a new light. You're not going backward if you're growing, ever. It's been said that people don't really change. What I've discovered is that we don't only if we don't want to or if we don't have to.

But we grow during periods of adversity, or at least we have to if we're to persevere. We have to do what we can, find all that's within us to survive and get past the tough times. There's just no room to be comfortable or to remain static. We have to keep moving forward -- hence the growth -- even when we don't know where to go or how to get there when we do. The alternative is too frightening to think about, and much too sad.

I have no idea where I'll be six months from now -- heck, not even in three. What I DO know, however, is that a year ago I didn't know I'd be here in Seattle and loving the Pacific Northwest. See, if you open yourself up to possibilities then the unknown is not quite as scary even when you're in precarious territory. I may never have pitched a tent or roasted marshmallows around a campfire in my life, but I sure know an adventure when I see it.

Twenty years ago, if I were told that I'd be here again, elbows deep in silky undergarments at work and cutting coupons at home, I would have considered my life a failure. Now I know better, and the main difference is really a matter of perspective. What I have before me now is a question, the topic of countless books and movies: what would you do if you could do it all over again?

I'm about to find out.

 

OCCUPY: MY NAME

When I was growing up, I thought my parents failed me the moment they gave me my name.

The long version, my legal and baptismal name, was too long and unwieldy. It wasn't easy to learn how to spell or say and to this day I wish I'd made minor changes to it when I became a naturalized US citizen. The short version only proves that my Philippine National Artist father was completely lacking in creativity and inspiration on the day he and mom decided to christen me with a nickname (my theory is that they couldn't pronounce the first one in the long string that is my full name either). Why "Gigi" is so popular in the Philippines is beyond all my comprehension; I'm convinced there are more of us in the world who are Filipino than French. To make things worse, my surname is the equivalent of "Smith" or "Jones" in the US. If I were on a plane thousands of miles above Manila and hurled a ball toward the ground, I'm fairly certain it would land on a person with my same last name. I wouldn't be surprised if it were a relative of mine either.

In fact, I did a Facebook search for my name last night and the options kept flowing endlessly -- for both men and women. There are so many of us that I didn't bother getting to the end of the list, partly because I fear there is no end to it. I'm convinced all of us could start our very own social network and be more actively engaged than, say, all my contacts are on Google+.

So perhaps it's surprising that the first thing I did on New Year's Day was to informally change my married hyphenated name, which gave me a uniqueness I'd never enjoyed as a single person, back to the one that millions of people happen to share. But it's my name, damn it, even if so many can say it's theirs, too.

The first time I got married, I didn't change my name. My ex-husband demanded I either switch to using his surname or keep mine because he didn't believe in my using both. That was an easy decision and a convenient one, as I discovered five years later, when I didn't have to go through the tedious process of dropping his and reclaiming my own.

When I got married again, my husband said it was completely my choice. Partly because I was grateful that I hadn't married a caveman but also party because I knew he hoped I would take his, I did. In a way I kept mine, too, but seeing our names joint felt like looking at a third entity. It took me a few years to make the decision to haul my ass into all the various government agencies and show proof that I was married so I could change my name, but when I did I did it for love. In hindsight I realize that keeping my name wouldn't have meant I loved him any less, but I suspect I was simply trying to do the opposite of just about everything I did (or didn't do) during my previous marriage in the fervent hope that I got this one right.

Well, that didn't quite work out either.

The truth is that I never felt truly comfortable with my new name. I'd look at it from time to time and ask myself who that person was and what made her any different from the one I was used to. I sometimes wonder if men have any idea of what it might be like to, practically overnight, stop writing the name they learned how to write and start responding to someone else's. Adopting a new name feels like you've become a completely new person -- and yet you're the same exact one but only attached to another now. I do understand why many women I know embraced their new surnames when they began their new lives; I just never felt the same way.

I went to an all-girls school until college and when I get together with my former classmates we still refer to each other, more often than not, by the names we used to hear during roll call every morning. Otherwise it can get a bit confusing, especially if you don't know who married whom. Men don't have to bother with any of this: whether they marry or not, they are identified, even after death, by the same name they were given on the day they were born.

Eventually I will go through all the legal mumbo-jumbo of changing my name yet again -- for the final time. I suspect that occasionally I will miss the one I carried for the past decade, especially because of all the wonderful memories associated with that period in my life and the family I became part of. But nothing has felt like myself quite like my own name, even if I still could think of a few better ones. I'm certain that the millions of us who go by my name agree.

 

 

DRAWING A BUCKET LIST

I have a milestone birthday coming up in a few years, and I'm already wondering how I'll measure my life when I get there. Not by my children, since I don't have any. Not by possessions; one quickly realizes that they can come and go far too easily. By love? That's a tricky one. I've had quite a few -- enough to write a book about (we'll get back to this later) and my two failed marriages are hearty fodder for pretty hardcore counseling, should I ever seek it one day. And yet I consider myself fairly lucky in this regard; with only a couple of exceptions, I'd be thrilled to see my past loves show up if I were featured in a '50s This Is Your Life episode.

I am surrounded by friends who are among the kindest, most decent people living, as well as sisters and nieces whom I would choose to be my friends if I weren't related to them already. My parents would never win any awards for parenting, but I've gotten to that point in my life where I wouldn't trade them for anyone else's. Besides, they managed to keep me alive this long, right?

But managing to live this long is not enough reason to pat myself on the back, especially in today's world when how we're supposed to look and feel is what we used to at least 10 years ago. Thus I've decided -- finally -- to give myself much to look forward to and aspire for and write it all down in a bucket list.

In case you haven't heard the term before, it's a list of things you plan to do before you hit a predetermined age. I'd never bothered to draft one before because I was content to simply live and see what happens while I'm doing just that. After all, something interesting always happened. But now I've realized that I need to actually MAKE things happen in my life -- and that it's never too late to make anything until you actually can't.

So what would be on it? Somewhere on top would be learning how to ride a bicycle; every year I say I'll finally do this but somehow I always get distracted and put it off for the next. This would be the most physically-challenging item on my list, I'm certain. I have absolutely no desire to run a marathon, climb a mountain, bungee-jump, or hurl myself off a plane high up in the air. NONE. WHATSOEVER. And when I finally learn how to ride a bike there will be no finish lines or stopwatches involved. Instead, think of a green basket on the handlebar and in it, a cute terrier of some sort, a bouquet of daisies, and a warm French baguette (in my mind the terrier never bothers to eat the daisies or the bread, by the way).

There will be no possessions involved, for sure. It would be so nice to live in a quaint cottage with wood floors topped with slightly fraying rugs, a brick wall in the living room with lots of books on the shelves, and a small but fertile garden where I can sit outside in the Spring with my man and our dog and cat -- but in a way I have that already. It's the happy place I go to in my head when the world gets a bit too weary for words. Besides, I've decided that material things have no place in any bucket list I make because my tastes can and do change (except for the house I just described).

There will be lots of learning involved -- a lifetime of it, in fact. I want to go back to school, maybe for a Master's degree but definitely for lots of classes.There will also be relearning: I want to rediscover my old passions for art and photography. There will be certificates for professional makeup artistry and esthetics, too. And there will also be music; perhaps I'll finally learn how to play an acoustic guitar.

I will travel -- although I'd have to be completely honest here and admit that I'd require some degree of comfort while doing so. We're not talking a stay at the Four Seasons or some fancy private resort here -- but if I could afford either then, at least once in a while, then of course I would choose to (It's MY bucket list!). As long as I have access to air-conditioning in the summer and a clean bathroom at all times, I'm good. I hope that's not too unreasonable to ask for.

And finally there will be writing -- a book, in fact. Perhaps it will be a book consisting of short stories or essays, but most definitely it will be about love and loss and how if one had truly loved and been loved in return then everything in life would have been worth it. Because even now, without my bucket list in hand, I know that I've had a pretty good one. After all, I'm still forward-looking and learning (hoping) to love each day more than the last.

Bucket list on its way soon.

I DO, I DIE(T)

Deciding to get married should be like deciding to begin a diet. You make the decision because you believe that your good life will become better if you do -- and not because you're imperfect or flawed if you don't. If you've chosen to do either thinking that you're a bad person, then getting married or losing weight will not change your self-esteem in any significant way. You'll only be altering your outward circumstances. On the inside, how you feel about yourself will ultimately be dependent on a number.

Before you begin you need to understand that both require tremendous effort, infinite patience, and some kind of uncomfortable spending spike. You'll need to brandish a plan of action and keep daily lists in order to reach your stated goal. It requires the support and encouragement of all the people you care about, especially on those days when you feel hopeless and helpless or that you might possibly go insane. And when you do achieve your goal you may feel the same but part of you says that something's essentially changed.

That day your achieve your weight goal is like your wedding day. Everything seems to be about you: everyone around you will congratulate you on a job well done and wish you good luck and happiness for the future. You look at yourself in the mirror and feel like you're at your most beautiful -- and most people will probably agree. It's also all about this day, about how your life was turned upside down and sideways for months on end, only so that it would be just like this. Maybe you're already thinking about the next few days, about the things you still need to do, but at this point everything still appears to be related to The Big Day that just passed.

Marriage is equivalent to the maintenance phase of your diet, where you have to keep doing all the good things you've learned to do so that hopefully you won't have to stop and start all over again -- and this time with the knowledge, borne of experience, that what you thought would be the end point is actually where you truly begin. It's where all the fanfare has passed and no one seems to be watching; in fact the only time people seem to notice anything is when you're obviously struggling, faltering even failing. The only person who realizes that maintaining your weight is so difficult because you're battling tedium, perhaps even missing the absence of such clear-cut, well-defined goals, is you. Beyond the day-to-day you wonder if there's something else you might or should be doing. Sometimes you ask yourself: what next?

The difference, however, is that you are solely responsible for your diet. It's all under your control. But marriage takes two people. You can have all the discipline, perseverance, positive outlook and optimism that you know is required to make it work, but you just can't make up for what the other person lacks or isn't willing to do. Sometimes it even fails despite your best efforts and intentions. But then it also succeeds.

Dieticians famously measure success according to the number of years a dieter maintains his or her weight. In a way, that's also how traditional society evaluates the success of a marriage, too. But one thing I've learned is that marriage is not a number; it's not about how long a couple can keep it together and celebrate wedding anniversaries or how many children are produced and raised. For me its success is about many, many things that can't be outwardly measured or quantified, and can only be determined by the two people within it. Even when it ends, no matter how short or long it lasted, no one else can say if it was worth all the time, effort, and expense. No one else but you.

And here's another thing I can say about marriage and dieting: the decision to do either one is solely up to you, not because people are saying you should. You are perfect whether or not you do, just as you are. If anyone else seems to be truly concerned about marriage or weight loss, they should simply pay attention to their own. If you give in to the expectations of others and you fail at either, I assure you that they will not carry your burden. It will be yours alone to bear.

Last word. Even if you fail, even if your marriage ends or you gain all the weight back, you are not a failure. No one said life was all about being married or being thin after all.

 

 

 

HAIRSTORY: THE ENDLESS WAR

All my life I've wrestled with my hair. Countless hairdressers, come to think of it, have, too. If you ask anyone who knew me through high school, you'll hear stories about how my hair was so heavy, thick, coarse, and dry that it had a (sad) life of its own, perpetually powerless against teenage hormones and Manila's tropical climate. It couldn't be conquered by huge tubs of conditioner, and woe to anyone who tried to tame it with a blowdryer.

When my friend's sister, fresh out of cosmetology school in the U.K., claimed she would be the Hillary and Norgay to the Mt. Everest on top of my head, I knew she was merely being naive. She was the first to cut expertly plotted layers into my hopeless mop, and although she was able to decrease its heft and bulk somewhat my tresses remained defiant. I suspect the reason she was never really friendly with me afterward was because I remained a constant nagging reminder of her limitations.

Boys teased me mercilessly but girls were somewhat kinder (I suspect they were merely mocking me behind my back). Some of my more helpful friends instructed me to brush my hair a hundred times every night and taught me how to create a more flattened effect with headbands and barrettes. I often forgot to do the former (who has the time?) and the latter's effect was like trying to make a curvy bombshell look like a flapper girl by sticking her into a girdle: eventually the flesh is going to have to pop out somewhere -- and it ain't pretty.

Then one day, just when I'd given up completely, my hair decided to cease its rebellion. It simply went straight. Throughout college I was able to style my hair almost any way I wished; I had an asymmetrical cut, a layered bob, a rocker shag, and during a brief but horribly foolish period in the '80s, I even got a perm. Somehow the irony of making myself look like a cauliflower after suffering the indignity of looking like a mushroom for years was completely lost on me. Still, I continued to enjoy my freedom throughout my 20s and early 30s. I'd stroll into my hairdresser's chair, sit down and say, "Do with it what you will."

And just as sudden as my hair became my friend, it decided to resume its fight. I fought back harder -- with $200 blowdryers, a battalion of boar's hair brushes, and enough hair products to fully stock a beauty supply store. Silicone became my friend. "What's going on?" I cried out to Chassi, who had tamed the beast for nearly a decade. "Hormones, most likely," she replied gently but matter-of-factly. "And gray hairs are kinky. You have quite a bit more now and it's changed your hair's texture."

I was done for. Age had done me in.

I decided to cooperate, resigned to my inevitable defeat. I grew my hair long so the weight would stretch it out, had layers cut back in, and ceased my carefree ways. Because my biceps were now a bit too weary from wielding tools and appliances, I gave them a break on weekends with a professional blowout as they continued their punishing workout for the rest of the work week.

And then a couple of months ago while I was in Manila, I decided I needed a haircut. After a thoroughly relaxing shampoo, the stylist's assistant sat me down in front of the mirror and combed my wet strands. "Ang nipis pala ng buhok mo! (Your hair is so thin!)," he exclaimed, perhaps a bit too artlessly. And in one fell swoop he destroyed every belief I've ever had about my hair -- and a little bit, too, of my self-esteem.

Now I want the rebellious hair of my youth back. Apparently age couldn't force it into submission and so it simply stripped all its bluster away. But I'm fighting back once more, this time with Biotin and possibly even with Viviscal. Bring on the mushroom cloud -- I'll win this one yet.

 

 

STRANGER BY THE DAY

I saw him in 1999, right after our divorce was finalized. I can't remember the last time I saw him before that morning because he wasn't around the day when I finally moved out of the home we once shared. I'll never forget that bright afternoon the year before: I'd locked the door behind me, with Stacy walking ahead, to lead the movers through the 20-mile drive to my new apartment building. Before getting into my car I paused and turned around to take a long, sweeping glance at the house I knew I'd never see again. I can still see it now in my mind today, and I sometimes wonder if the new owners have made any changes to all the many changes I'd made when it became mine.

So on that day when I saw him for the first time as my ex-husband, he came up with me to the ninth floor to drop off a few things I'd left behind and to see where and how I now lived. Before we finally parted ways, I leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and he moved away from me quickly and said stiffly in a low voice, "No, that's too weird for me."

I never saw him again.

Until, I think, last year. Not too long before I moved out of yet another home and began another life, incidentally. If you haven't noticed, I said I think I saw him. To this day I have no idea if the man I saw at the Chinese restaurant far away from where we once both lived was my ex-husband. The one I was with for eight years, married for five. And although the time we've already spent apart is more than the years we were together, it makes absolutely no sense to me that I would not recognize someone I was once married to.

I saw him about two tables away from where I was seated. I stared ahead, frozen in some combination of dread and astonishment, my gaze locked firmly on his face. His hairline was further back from his forehead than I'd remembered, but his jaw was still as strong and determined. His eyes crinkled at the sides underneath the glasses he wore and his entire body shook awkwardly when he laughed, just like a stiff board would, the way he would have if he were my ex. He even dressed the same way, in the kind of clothes I used to buy for him. For a second I thought he saw me, and I would have ducked if I weren't too shocked to move. It wouldn't have mattered though; if he were really my ex he wouldn't have been able to see my face from where he was, even with his glasses on.

I wanted to open my mouth and call his name, just to see if he'd look my way. But I couldn't -- I still don't know quite why, but I couldn't get the words out. If it were him then what would we both do? Wave and say hello, ask what the other was doing there, laugh, and then politely say goodbye? If I had to ask him who he was, wouldn't he be offended that I couldn't recognize someone I once built a life with? What if he didn't recognize me? What if we acknowledged each other and then had to pretend now that we didn't spend all those years pretending we'd never been married to the other?

In the end, I stood up from my chair and slipped away quietly, hoping he wouldn't see me. To be face-to-face with him again -- no, it would have been too weird for me that day, too.

RUB ME LONG TIME

First, a disclaimer: I am not a prude.

But when it comes to folks with non-romantic intimate access to my ladybits, only females are allowed. My primary doctor, gynecologist, acupuncturist, masseuse: all women. My dentist, EENT doctor, allergist, hairdresser: all men. I hope I've made the distinction clear.

I can't explain why I'm this way, especially when I frown on sexism of any kind. I suspect it all began when I got into a car accident in my early 20s, and the creepy (male) doctor who examined me for whiplash and subsquent back pain decided to give me an impromptu breast exam as well, with no other female in the room. I was completely stunned, petrified even, and the words that were screaming in my brain ("Is that really necessary? My boobs don't hurt! ") wouldn't come out of my mouth. My fears were further solidified when, many years later, my then-boyfriend attended a bachelor party and met a drunk gynecologist who boasted that he took his time while examining any attractive patient so that he could spend more time "down there."

So imagine my distress when I walked into my local Massage Envy during my birthday last week and realized that I hadn't requested a female therapist when I booked my two-hour appointment. But my profile clearly specifies my preference, I repeatedly recited like a silent mantra. I'd never experienced a mix-up at the Southern California location I used to visit, besides. I thought of asking the receptionist about whom I was booked with anyway -- but decided to shut up when two male therapists stepped up to the desk.

One of them was tall, tanned, blond, athletic-looking -- gorgeous, with a killer smile to boot. Oh, please, not him, I thought, in a way that sounded almost like a prayer. See, another of my quirks is that I don't like beautiful male strangers touching me. It's like whenever I'm in the presence of a male stripper, I look away so they know not to go near me. Of course that never works. I liken this to being with cute cats and adorable children. Because crazy folks keep trying to grab and squeeze them, they gravitate to those who simply ignore they're there. And so it goes; oiled and perfumed naked men inevitably gyrate their way straight to me, slither and sashay mere centimeters away, trying to get my attention when all I want is for them to keep their hands off me.

The other guy, though, was a shorter, stockier version of John Oates. Together they resembled one of my favorite 20th-century pop duos, but even that thought offered me no relief. "Gigi?" he looked at me and smiled. Oh, say it isn't so.

My desire to up and run out the door was so strong, the only thing that kept me walking toward our assigned therapy room instead was that I didn't want to hurt his feelings (okay, and pay a last-minute cancellation fee, too). So I undressed, got on the table, lay face down, and opened up myself to this new experience. Pretending he was female didn't hurt either.

Two hours later it was over and, thankfully, I didn't feel traumatized the least bit. It wasn't bad, actually, but I just couldn't relax enough to sleep. Maybe sometime in the future it won't matter, but today I made sure I'd booked a female masseuse. Besides her strange choice for small talk (natural disasters and climate change in Washington state) when I'd specifically mentioned I wanted nothing else but stress relief and sleep, I didn't have to do anything else but shut down for business. And when she heard my first gentle snore she stopped talking, finally.

That's another thing about me. Whenever I lie down and close my eyes, all I want to do -- whether I'm being massaged, tweezed, waxed, examined, probed, even getting my teeth cleaned -- is think of nothing and sleep. I'm certain even all my ladybits feel the same way.