catting
One August night 10 years ago, Alma, Mish, Cel and I had bet.
These sisses were my seatmates in Advanced Genetics 1. We sat side-by-side in the lecture hall twice a week half-listening, half passing notes to each other. Each note was funnier than the last. (I even have one of those in my room that I unearthed recently). We have a particular fondness for conspiracy theories, the kookier it got, the better. We sometimes like to regard ourselves as the Puppet Masters of the existing love teams in our organization.
Ironically, we didn’t have a love team of our own.
And so, one starry August night, as with any other night, the four of us traversed the lush scenery that stretched from Biosci to the UP gate. We always favored walking than the jeep. It allowed us to extend our verbal intercourse even on subjects as trivial as the longevity of the career of upcoming horizontally-challenged bold stars as Priscilla Almeda. In the middle of our tittering, jeering, and the quasi-devious scheming reminiscent of Mr. Burns, the absence of someone to give that spark hit us with a mammoth blow. We weren’t disturbed by it before, but that August night was bizarre. Maybe it was the stars. Maybe it was the sound of frat men singing in their tambayan. Or maybe it was the thought that we were again spending Christmas with no one to make our hearts do the macarena. Not that it mattered before. It was then that someone suggested that we have to take matters into our own hands and generate a love team for ourselves. May it be for love, for friendship, for the need for a new alalay who would withstand our numerous idiosyncrasies and worship us like goddesses; may it be for free amenities, or for mere bragging rights. We were, after all, the Puppet Masters.
But then, if we’re talking 4months, that was a long shot for us. So we made a more reasonable bet:
The first one who comes closest to having a boyfriend before Christmas vacation sets in, wins. Losers get to throw the party.
The first step to this bet is choosing our victims within the UP campus premises. Mish and Cel had their targets. Alma and I had to find one.
The one that came to mind is this guy whom I found interesting some 2years before. He was interesting. Not precisely the object of my affection, but enough to get me interested. He wasn’t, by general opinion, a matinee idol. That was precisely what I got attracted to. He had a certain charm that breathed a new definition for coolness. I just didn’t take an active effort to be interested before. But since the advent of this bet, I had better get my moves on. He was my crush in a blink of an eye. Making that a reality was only a matter of time.
The only rules were not to do anything that would degrade the org and ourselves as we had a rep to protect. Employing the aid of a bridge was a violation.
Once we named out targets, it was all systems go.
I hadn’t counted on some sisses outside the bet getting wind of the situation. Their watchful eyes were glued on to us. They kept score. Their proficiency in commentating went from non-existent to competent. Our girls were neck-deep in their compassion to give us a daily, accurate blow-by-blow account of where our targets were and who was leading the race. They were the unbiased outsiders we inadvertently needed to ascertain whether out targets were getting goo-goo eyes for us as well. They didn’t mind that they were not in on the bet. It was their time to take the back seat and swoon! The more they monitored us with our targets, the more I found out they were falling for my target! They suddenly realized what I saw in this guy and understood why those pretty boys in the same league as Rico Yan wasn’t appealing to me. It was flattering for me. It covertly meant that I have good taste, I think. What I didn’t count on was Alma also found herself enamored with this guy and losing interest in her own!! Arrrgh! He’s mine!!!
As the months progressed, it became confusing as to which girl was following which guy. It seemed as though my rivals were gradually drawn to all of our targets, particularly mine. I surmise it was played up with the reality that our audience and commentators were smitten with my target.
Fast forward: Christmas party, 10 yrs ago. Mish, Alma, Cel & I had a separate party in a private pool over gin and sprite. No one won.
Irony does wonders to one’s psyche. We pondered on our adeptness as Puppet Masters for a whole minute. Melancholy wasn’t in our agenda. At least no one was heart-broken.
by the way, illustration is by amy schimler. her style is similar to what i would normally do, hence, my choice of artist.
Zoe said this on July 26, 2005 at 9:22 pm