I have been frothing at the mouth over my excess weight these past two years (thanks to constant eating in the office) yet I never really did anything about it.

I know that pills can’t really help you lose weight, but I was — and still am — such a sloth I couldn’t motivate myself to exercise. My only physical activity consists of manually turning the television set on and off, and occasional beer-lifting. And oh, I do take the stairs on MRT stations, but not always. Seldom is more like it.

Anyway, these past few weeks, I’ve been in less than perfect health. Two weeks back (I think) it was hyperacidity that stole my long weekend from me. I couldn’t do anything. I was practically bedridden, since any movement had me doubling over. I couldn’t eat even though I was horribly hungry, thanks to a really shot digestive system. That’s what a combination of not eating on time, spicy foods and coffee can do to you.

Then this week I somehow got infected with a roving virus that has effects similar to those of Xenical. I’m not going to elaborate.

So, since my digestive system is shot and I nearly died of dehydration, I somehow feel a bit lighter (and light-headed). It’s not a great feeling, being sick, but now that I’m a little better, I sort of feel less bloated than I’ve been these past few years.

I can’t eat much, ever since the hyperacidity episode, and I suppose I may actually have stomach ulcers that go into overdrive every meal time. Now I can only eat half a cup of rice. More and I’ll suffer the rest of the day. When I get hungry in between meals, I raid my stash of Milo and skyflakes.

And oh, I’ve somehow managed to wean myself off coffee.

The way I see it, I’d rather minimize my intake now than be forced to quit coffee forever. Hopefully, I’ll be able to fix my digestive system with constant Xantac-popping. Hopefully.

The good thing about this is that I lost a grand total of five pounds in two weeks. From 122lbs, I’m now down to 117lbs — just 7lbs heavier than my high school weight.

That’s without any exercise at all. Usually, though, the pounds return right after. This time, however, I think things will change. I’m not saying I’ll exercise. My Hip-Hop Abs video is gathering dust on a shelf. I’m just saying I have no choice.

I still can’t go beyond a few bites without getting a bloatey feeling, so I can’t eat a lot. Maximum of half-cup rice per meal, or even less. Otherwise, I’ll be clutching my midsection the entire day. Since I can’t eat much, there won’t be as many unburned calories stocked in my body, right?

That means I won’t need to exercise, and still I’ll lose weight.

It’s my involuntary diet.

Spotted: 60-70 something irate Lola (Grandmother) aboard a Bel-air/Washington jeepney, 10:42 AM (+8 hours GMT); wearing a light blue polo shirt, acid-wash jeans and a pair of bright pink Barbie mary-janes. What the hell? Did your gay grandson outgrow them and give them to you?

By now, I suppose you clearly know how obsessive I can get when it comes to my hair. Around a month ago, I decided to have it shortened, just because I was getting tired of the “long hair” schtick.

Too bad.

The haircut was fine at first, but then it started GROWING.

It looked weird when left in its natural state, so I pretty much had to keep my hair in a ponytail most of the time. I was secretly unhappy with the way my hair was, but I thought that at least I had means to keep it under control.

Yesterday, though, I finally had the chance to fix my hair problem — or so I thought. In an attempt to bring order to my rebellious hair, I had it cut shorter and thinner.

Voila!

Now I look like some F4 reject. Yay.

I can still keep it in some sort of ponytail, I guess, but I do hope it grows out properly this time. Note to self: stop messing with your hair!

Plus, I’m imposing a moratorium on haircuts. No more haircuts until my hair reaches its previous length. I hope.

Here’s a rather funny article from The Onion about hair. No, it’s not about me.

In my last post, I mentioned that I had gotten an extremely pathetic haircut. Yes, I no longer look like that long-haired girl in the LJ userpic.

So, , this is for you.

I suppose I’m not the best person to write about attraction.

I always find it extremely difficult to answer questions like, “what makes him/her attractive?” There seems to be no easy way to articulate things like that.

For example, I find Johnny Depp extremely hot because of his expressive eyes, but you could transpose those eyes onto Hilary Swank’s head and I still wouldn’t find her remotely attractive. I imagine it to be something like Conan O’Brien’s “If They Mated” segment, and the results are rarely pretty.

You can’t just say that this guy looks good because he has a nice nose, or that this girl is pretty because she has pouty lips. It just doesn’t work that way.

So why do people keep on asking you to describe your “type”? Is there really such a thing? You could string together a bunch of requirements for all the parts of the face, but rarely can you find someone who has the exact same mold as your so-called “type”. You could say, I like guys with longish hair that’s all messy (think Rukawa Kaede), then you meet someone who has the exact same hair but with a face akin to Long Mejia’s. Now that wouldn’t be so much attractive to you now, would it?

There are two reasons why this sudden obsession with attraction came up. First, and more seriously, I couldn’t find a decent way to explain to a friend/officemate why she was “attractive”(not in a lesbo way, mind you). I was seriously sloshed, too, by the way, so that could be partly the cause of my inarticulateness, but still.

It’s not that I’m the nitpicky type, you know, although I can be rather nasty when it comes to dishing out criticism. As far as I’m concerned, everyone on earth looks okay and there’s no such thing as “ugly”. By everybody, of course, I mean Jobert Sucaldito excluded. However, I do have extremely high standards for beauty, so if I say I think you’re pretty then I mean it.

What this rather senseless, long-winding ramble is supposed to mean, I have no idea. Which brings me to the REAl reason for this rather pointless post: I went to my usual haircutter last Saturday and came out of the place with an extremely craptastic haircut.

Lesson learned: when dealing with even the most experienced of parloristas (or as my sister puts it, manggugupit), never ever ever ever ever say these two words:

“Ikaw bahala.”

I used to think red denim pants went great with a gray printed shirt — tucked in.

That’s probably the best way to sum up my fashion sense — or lack thereof.

People who see me these days tend to think I can at least dress decently, but the truth is I really lack anything resembling normal fashion sense. I like watching America’s Next Top Model, I watch Project Runway, I browse through the occasional fashion magazine. That should keep me updated with the latest fashion trends, right?

Right?

Um, not exactly.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I ever actually graduated from my geek phase. In fact, my life is some sort of unending geek phase, with me still grappling with concepts as alien as “fashion” and “cool”.

As a kid I think I never really understood what cool was, having been the disastrous, unsociable little girl who preferred making up stories in her head more than talking to actual people. I was the complete opposite of cool and barely even cared. Just like any other geek in those teen flicks, I was such a loser I didn’t even know I was one.

Sad.

Not that I was some sort of candidate for “Beauty and the Geeks” (reverse edition — if there was one). I suppose I was just too corny for the rest of the world. Everyone else seemed to know the trends, like when knee pants were okay, or when Michael Jackson was the coolest thing to ever hit the planet. I never really knew any of that and was barely aware of what other people thought was “in”.

I wore kung fu shoes with my uniform; wore a polo shirt to the school fair when everyone else was into mini-tees; stuck to “boy” shirts when every girl in school was turning girly.

In third year, I wore a pang-abay dress to the prom when the dress code was semi-formal. The following year I wore stockings under what could have been my greatest fashion victory ever (a white, semi-formal dress that actually looked *ahem* hot for a change).

I’m a walking fashion disaster.

In my first job, I bought clothes from 168 to cut costs. The clothes looked like crap.
In my second job, I wore HangTen shirts with slacks.

To this day I still wear crappy clothes. I practically wear everything I own with my trusty cranberry (yes, cranberry) chucks.

I’m so uncool it’s just not very normal.

Then again, maybe normal just isn’t really a very apt word for me.

No I didn’t watch the movie.

I must admit I’m a lot more inclined to watch Till I Met You than that commercial sap. Not that Till I Met You isn’t commercial sap. However, it does star Robin Padilla, my one true Pinoy action star love, so what the hell.

Unfortunately, this post isn’t about Pinoy movies, though that does give an idea for a future post. I digress. I’m pretty much distracted by the upcoming UST-ADMU basketfall do-or-die so pardon the lack of direction. This is what I actually want to say:

Last Saturday, bored and stoned way out of my mind, I decided to do something that heralded my entry into official matronhood: I had facial. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a facial. I had no idea — and still no really clear understanding — of what a facial’s supposed to do. It’s just that the past few months saw a rather bad case of pimple breakout on my otherwise clean face, and i was running out of options.

All I knew was that a facial was supposed to clean up my face and get rid of acne in a snap. I suppose I was hoping for some sort of miracle, that I would emerge from the clinic with face as bright as Michelle Reis’. That just shows how little I know, I guess.

I stepped into Dermclinic with little apprehension (I actually thought it was Dermstrata - the one a friend had spoken highly of), thinking nothing could go wrong. Nothing did, by the way, so don’t be scared. This is not a horror post, so relax. The receptionist said the doctors were away, so pricking couldn’t be done. I could have a normal facial, though, and so I said yes readily. She started blabbing about some other procedures and additional services, and I numbly said yes. I suppose I was too taken in by the visit that I just stupidly said yes to everything.

I was brought inside and asked to wash my hands and face. How hygienic, I noted, only to find a tiny baby cockcroach scurrying across the mirror.

I stepped into the make-shift room and sat on the bed rather uncomfortably. I hate hospitals, and the bed reminded me of one terribly. The attendant was swift, though, and I was on my back in no time.

I can’t remember each procedure exactly. I know she began by sanding my face with a rather rough brush, then applied some cream and sanded my face again with some smaller brush It’s not so comforting to think of procedures done to my face in carpentry terms, but that’s just the way I think, unfortunately. I remember her giving me a massage, then vacuuming the white and black heads off my face. Cold glop was poured all over my face and allowed to harden. It was supposed to “tighten” my face, she said, and I had no choice but to nod silently, given the situation. I was left alone for a few minutes, with an oxygen tank connected to my nostrils by some tubes. It was flavored, too, though I had some sort of urge to ask her for a “doobie” flavored one. Kidding. Say no to drugs, kids.

The attendant was nice — too nice, I must say. She chatted me up endlessly, and I had no choice but to respond. Told about an impending Baguio trip, she replied cursorily, “ang saya naman!” I swear I could smell the saccharine dripping off her chin.

Sitting in there, I couldn’t help but wax existential. How long has it been seen I last needed a facial? Never. Exactly. I looked at the mirror (unfortunately coming across the baby cockcroach again) and saw not me but a matron. Have I turned into some sort of society clone? God forbid.

I was wrong, though. The facial doesn’t magically turn your face into some sort of chinchansu testimonial. I still don’t look like a porcelain doll. My face is still filled with blemishes — no pricking because there’s no doctor, right? But I did like the pampering a bit, like I had done something decent to my face for once.

I suppose a second facial is in order, around three weeks or less.

What can I say? Vanity? It’s my favorite sin.