I woke up the next day feeling like I had a really bad one-night stand. All my friends have been eating up the sea’s bounty for the past few weeks for Lent. Being the distracted feline that I was, I completely forgot it was Lenten season despite all the fish burger ads flapping across the city. Was I a bad person for gulping burgers like Tic Tacs? The Lenten season is supposed to be a time for sacrifice and devotion. And here I was, completely oblivious.
I can’t help but smack myself for being so out of it (as I always am). I was too busy watching the entire season of Sex and the City all over again while eating every meat product available to man. It made me realize that I was becoming this person who didn’t care anymore – a morally relaxed, overdressed tart with no substance but alcohol in her.
That burger, which can be a really bad metaphor for the good night/bad morning episodes that all of us hedonistic animals are aware of, made me realize how apathetic I’ve become. I’ve become so blissfully self-involved that little things such as friendly fish burgers are not worthy of my consideration.
In this day and age when absolutely nothing shocks us anymore (except maybe for the carb content of a certain tonic water if you’re not careful enough to read the label), we are in desperate need of a hero. We need a Care Bear to make us human again. It’s true that childhood these days is far shorter. Kids these days have done Ecstasy even before high school, or so I’ve heard. We navigate the perilous waters of complicated relationships the second after we get our first period. Not to mention that kids start knocking boots at very young ages.
So it’s easy to get jaded really fast. As a matter of fact, it’s quite fashionable to be jaded at 17 years old. But let this malaise creep up and you’ll start becoming a creep yourself. We grew up watching superheroes with their superpowers. It was comforting to know that there was someone out there to make everything better. There was always a happy ending.
As we get older we find out that our superheroes are simply either played by overpaid actors with perverted inclinations or unemployed actors in mascot suits with perverted inclinations. Paul Reubens jacked off in a cinema and it was the end of Pee Wee’s Playhouse. Wonder Woman was actually kind of nuts in real life. So the fantasy wears off, just as it did when we discovered the truth about Santa. Innocence is stripped away, along with your excitement for life itself.
But then, even oversexed wrinkled manipulative workaholics with a shine for narcotics still need a hero. When you come to a certain point in your life where you’re more disillusioned than inspired, the hero you look for will have less superpowers and more balls instead. They will usually be more human and flawed, vulnerable but determined. And hopefully dressed in better outfits, although that’s a useless plus.
I’ve always had mine, although I always manage not to show how much I appreciate her. Everything has become cheap these days. No, I’m not talking about IDD rates, which are by the way wonderful, but the whole art of living and loving. Relationships are as disposable as tampons these days. So are families, for most irresponsible folks. And forget about romance – even "I love you," when texted, isn’t deserving of vowels anymore.
I have a friend who is content with accumulating notches on his bedpost and being a gazillionaire. He’s 40 now and I’m waiting for a sense of regret as the lines under his eyes deepen. But at present, he justifies his ennui by building a solid career. But what happens when the dead presidents in the Swiss bank turn stale?
That is why my hero is my mother. On the outside she is a picture of diplomacy, elegance and a touch of frivolity. Much like the template of any boring socialite on Xanor. But I’m lucky that I’ve become closer to her, not to be disarmed by her charms. There are times I hate her. But this I realize is because we are so alike (me being the Chinese pirated version). Also, I know when she’s right and I hate it. I also realize that what makes this person perfect is that she is human.
My mother has made a couple of mistakes. There are times I catch her looking out in the window mumbling to herself, then shaking her head. I like it that she realizes this in her own little way. Her humility is what becomes her.
She is proud in certain things, though. Like when she believes in something, no one can change her mind. She knows that she can do anything, and she certainly can. I mean, her life started off as that "model marries party boy" cliché. They were poor but fabulous.
Then I guess having us changed it all. She became this superwoman who made things happen. Part of it was her brain channeling her charms in reaching her destiny. Part of it was the realization that being fabulous isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. She got bored with the whole superficial whirl of disco and cocktail dresses.
In a million years my mother would have never thought of learning Bisaya in record speed and rolling up her sleeves to get a poor province up from its scabby knees. She was so sweet and I could see that the people she worked with were kind of in love with her. But what made her interesting was that beneath that sweetness was ambition and determination. She once threw a chair at a Congressman who pissed her off. I think that sealed the deal for me. I admired her from that moment on, and I think for those who witnessed that scandale they were transformed from being disarmed by her charms to truly respecting her.
I never knew how she did it. The delilah of being in politics (I will never marry a politician) left her weary and yet even despite her absence she was still the pillar of our kooky family. We were all brats: me, my dad and my brother. And yet she loves us. Even during those times when she could just ditch us for some Count whom she could surely hook and have grateful, blue-eyed children with, she still loves us. When my grandfather died I never thought I could feel loved by a family member again.
It was only when I was 20, having outgrown my teenage angst and self-pity party, that I realized there was a person who would always be there for me and who would love me no matter what. My mother, who before that was seen as my enemy. And it’s not only me. My father, despite his predilection for frolic, can’t live without her. My brother, despite his independence and very creamy career, still runs to her for everything. Her small group of friends are all as devoted to her as she is to them.
Unlike me, my mother lives in a world without BS.
I still have to weed out the fake Louis Vuitton friends in mine. It took her years to realize that blessings come in odd packages. My dad, who has disappointed her in the past, did not destroy her. Rather, she realized that despite his mistakes, her blessing was that she loved him and that was enough for her to stay with him. He, with all his faults, was her blessing.
She taught me how to love in the right way. Taking people for who they are, understanding their weaknesses and not idealizing them. She also taught me that love is never a serenade. Love is often most felt in tears and disenchantment.
That’s why she’s my hero. She taught me to embrace an imperfect life and see that the blessings that come with it are often what we don’t expect. Today she does Pilates, plays with her dogs, keeps my dad company and argues with me. But I know that despite everything, she is happy. She is brilliant that way. Turning lemons into lemonade. Sweet lemonade.