Mumblings on a heavy Friday

Mumblings on a heavy Friday

All week long I’ve been ridiculously happy.

It was Celine’s birthday the other day. Birthdays being the joyous occasions they are, they’re a pretty good excuse for the normally boisterous Virtual Channels team to be even louder than usual. This day was something special, though. Out came the birthday cake, the bouquet of flowers, the guitar and the singers for our dearest “Prime Minister.”

It wasn’t until nightfall that the celebration really went under way, though. Cel had invited us all to a birthday party—at McDonald’s. A children’s party at that, complete with the Grimace mascot doing his thing. Not that it really made much of a difference: we were all game enough to join in the games, dance like lunatics when ordered and laugh our asses off. It’s funny, actually, how I used to dread the thought of going to children’s parties when I was three years shy of entering my teens. Now, I didn’t care, and neither did my co-workers.

I’ll post pictures soon enough; when my home connection isn’t so temperamental, I hope.

Thursdays are normally my low point of the week. I wake up at 6 am with not enough shut-eye, take a cold shower, skip breakfast and drive to my office before 7 so I can hit the gym for my 90-minute workout. You can imagine how pooped I become even before I start work at 9 every Thursday.

Somehow this Thursday was a lot more invigorating, though. Breakfast was a hearty bowl of congee, served hot with jokes and laughter from my teammates. Work didn’t seem as tedious as in other days (such as today). I had even put in a little more work with my weights. There was this inexplicable feeling of rightness about this Thursday, even though at best it’s like a weekend-long party: it’s major fun when you’re in it but also a bit of a relief when over.

I’d hit a low point today though. My body’s basically tired, feeling the burn from the added exercise I’d put in. My eyes are tired and droopy from the unsatisfied hunger for sleep. It’s still happy days, though.
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Taking advantage of the long weekend, Cel, Mylou, Mao R., Anton and some others planned on going to Baguio for a vacation. Personally I’m rather sick of the place, but with them in tow I know it’s going to be fun for sure. They’re probably on their way there now. Unfortunately I opted out, figuring this would be a good opportunity to have a mechanic look at my car’s suspension.
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To my chagrin, the shop in Cubao I’d heard much good news about was going to be closed on holiday Monday, so I’m going there tomorrow morning for an estimate.

Now the car is still technically my mom’s, but since I’m the one driving it and paying for its fuel, I might as well call it my own in terms of maintenance and repair—including the decisions for such. My mother doesn’t seem to understand this though.

I’ve already saved up for the potential expense as I was expecting the money to come out of my pocket, and I already had a couple places in mind for the repairs. But here she was, almost insisting that I bring it to the Honda dealership—which is really quite the foolish option. From my erstwhile participation in HCP, Honda charges a ridiculous fee for mostly substandard work. I love their cars, but it’s the servicing I’m still highly skeptical about.

She also pooh-poohed the pictures and videos I took of Cel’s party. There I was, proud to show off my friends having fun, but she gave a hiss and skulked away. Goodness. Now she wonders why I don’t make her a bigger part of my life.

Sigh. I have one simple request: some trust and respect from my mom.

Some much-deserved leeway to do the things I deem important would be right up my alley too. I can’t even move an inch without parental approval—and I’m 23 years old already.