eyebrows

June 29, 2007

You know those conversations that hit home like a wayward punch into your glass jaw and you still feel the after effects much later?  Well, recently somebody punched me in the gut with her words and now this is the consequence. And if anybody should think this entry sucks, don’t look at me and blame her instead.

These are the snippets of our conversation:

Girl: Maski pa paseloson taka, di man gihapon. Maski testingan taka, wa gihapon.
Me: Ah! Testingan jud? High school man kayo na oi, di naman ko madala anang testing-testing.
Girl: (frustrated) Pagselos pud daw oi para makabalo pud daw ko na naga-care ka.

Girl: Mao jud. Kung paseloson taka, di man gihapon ka masuko, NR lang man ka.
Me: Di daw NR oi. Di lang ko pakita ug reaksyon. 
Girl: Wa jud. Kung sultian taka nga naa ko lain masuko diay ka? Di man na nimo nature.   
Me: Unsa man gusto nimo, dunggabon tamong duha?

(laughter)

Me: Bitaw, ayaw lang mo pakita sa akoa kay impulsive ako kasuko. Kanang makaitom pananaw.

Obviously, that was not the first time we’ve had that conversation so her frustration, from her point of view, is understandable. Okay, I’m going to attempt to dissect here why I seem indifferent to fits of jealousy. First, let me start by stating one incontrovertible fact:

I have thick eyebrows.

I don’t mean the bushy kind that most men possessed. My eyebrows are a single continuous streak from end to end, disregarding that defenseless break in the middle of the forehead right above the bridge of the nose.

It’s quite a glitch since I’m not a particularly hirsute person. I can’t grow a mustache ala Lito Lapid or sport a full beard like Dante Varona (for the benefit of the young generation, think Mel Gibson’s mug shot when he was arrested for DUI or Jim Caveziel as Christ). Anyway, I tried growing a mustache once and it came out a little flaky. Each beard choosing to mutiny and extend towards the heavens or the east and west, never down south, which come to think of it was a veritable violation of all laws of physics and gravity. The experiment bombed because I ended up looking like a Vietnamese chihuawa with scabies.

There’s an old myth about eyebrows. Apparently, the degree of your jealousy can be always be distinguished by how thick your eyebrows are and growing up people always tell me. “Seloso ka no?” That loaded question never failed to stump me. How could I answer when I never really assessed myself that much to care whether I’m the jealous type or not? As is the case when you’re being spoon-fed with falsehood, sooner or later you accept it as truth. For quite some time, I thought I was the jealous type and I guarded my women like a hawk. I defended even those who didn’t know I existed. Yeah I know. I came quite close to being a psychotic stalker. 

Let’s call her X. I met her in College at Ateneo and, well, pursued her. I didn’t know why she said yes but we were an item for a while. See, everytime I woo a girl, I go through two phases:  first is the charming son of a bitch — this is when I pull out all the stops to win over the girl; and just plain son of a bitch – when I suddenly lost interest because she said yes. Usually, the girl got the hint and broke up with me. 

Not this one. We were on for only one month but the space between us was a nucleus of hostility. She was jealous and I was jealous and right on the get go we clashed. I didn’t even know why I liked her in the first place (uh… wait. Yeah, she had big boobs). Only a day after we were on, she stormed into my classroom because she saw me talking to my girl seatmate with a smirk, which usually means I have a wisecrack comment, and dragged me outside. Oh, did I mention that the class was still in session? 

And so we’d fight over petty things and nobody was seemed eager to yield. Some days were more violent for her than others, when she’d swing his books or shoulder bag at me. There were also times when I came close to wringing her neck and get it over with. Good thing I had loads of self-control or else I would have been some convict’s bitch by now. 

At least I’ve learned that you could never really win in a shouting match with a woman and so the best argument is silence. Nothing annoys a woman more than utter silence in the middle of spat. 

But I digress.

That experience was pretty traumatic but more importantly, I realized that it wasn’t jealousy that pushed me to endure that relationship or even to provoke her into a fight. It was pride. I relished each moment when I sent her into paroxysms of rage while I retain my self-control; I relished accusing her of being a bitch in heat (yeah, I was a bastard) as men (dogs, I called them) toadied up to her (again, she’s got big boobs). In the end, we walked away without learning anything, certainly not as better persons. 

I saw through the obscurity that my eyebrows had cloaked me with.

I’m not about jealousy. People think I’m indifferent and even my girl thinks I possess a heart of stone, which is not entirely correct. Sure I bleed but nobody’s going to get the satisfaction of seeing me wince. 

(Anger is such a pointless exercise, I prefer to get even.)

Besides, why should I be jealous when I’m partly (I hope) responsible for the person she is now? It’s just like baking a scrumptious chocolate cake that you worked hard for. From the time you list the recipe from your favorite food channel, to doing the grocery, to the painstaking task of mixing the ingredients and baking it on the oven for 400 degrees farenheit. When the cake comes out perfect, should I then complain when others admire its beauty? I should have baked a pandesal instead! 

Am I the only man in the world who’s proud when men mill around his girl instead of being jealous? Let me see, as of last count, my girl has about five men ingratiating themselves to her at the same time! Most of these men are taller, better looking and maybe even more moneyed than me. I should be threatened, right? No, I’m beaming, for Christ’s sake! This would do wonders for her self-esteem. 

Everybody must think I’m crazy to feel secure. But if somebody reads this and still wonders about that, he or she missed the whole point of this entry. This is not about me. This is about her — even if sometimes she forgets that.

What about the incontrovertible truth that is my eyebrows?

Simple, I just plucked them.