On being a model

I do not want readers of this blog to think that I was shanghaied into believing that I can be a model because I clearly know that I am not model-material. However, grant me some benefit of the doubt. This story is for real.

I just finished working out and was on my way home. I usually walk from my gym which is located in a condominium several blocks from the place I am staying on Boni. I was crossing the corner of a street when a Lexus SUV pulled over in front of me. The driver, smiling, excused himself and ask if I have tried modeling before and if I have some sort of a portfolio. I was incredulous and did a mental picture of myself that time — I was wearing a pair of diminutive gym shorts, cotton shirt, and was sweating all over. Assured that I did not look like a prostitute, I smiled back at him and said no. He was with a small boy, his son probably. I thought, any man who’s smart enough (save decent) wouldn’t pick up a prostitute with his son in the car at 6 in the evening in one of Mandaluyong’s busiest streets.

He asked if I wanted to model for a big department store. “This man got to be kidding me!” I said to myself. And serious he was. He gave me his business card (ring card, he called it) and got my number. Then I said I had to be going as I still had tons to read for that semiotics presentation I would be delivering in class the following day.

Me modeling? Come on!

Perfidious thoughts. Yuck.

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A positive post from a perennially negative man

The sunlight, diffused by my dusty glass windows gives my room a provincial feel, only of course it can’t truly be provincial because EDSA is honking and raging  21 floors below, and the screeching sound of cranes lifting slabs of reinforced  concrete for the two condominiums being built just across the street can still be heard, albeit subdued. Thanks to the insulation my room affords me, I can still enjoy the slight silence of this morning.  Quiet Saturday mornings like now remind me of laid-back mornings in Polomolok when I did not have to force myself to leave the bed and to be woken up by our house help’s guttural, “Gusto nimo mag-kape, Kuya?“.

What happened last night was beyond my comprehension. I was left in my room alone; too tired to run after [this and some succeeding sentences will drop the object of the verb], I opted to just sleep it off and let the next day come up with synthesis of what had happened. I woke up today feeling nothing, the incident eight hours ago remains as enigmatic.

I’ve changed. I guess what differentiates my current self from who I was, say, a year ago is that I expect less from my relationships now. Yes I love still, more passionately by the day, and never shall I feign affection, but when things become as blurry as my window, I keep myself from rushing to wipe it clean right after. Now I let things take their own pace. After all, the dust and hardened grime from the heavy rain of last night are now giving my room a beautiful, rustic glow.