When I announced this bit of news to my family gathered at Sunday dinner, my nephew and niece–fearing the worst–cautiously asked, "Are you going to do it?"
My staff here at STARweek was just as restrained. "Oh really?" was all Rosal could manage, while Alpha remained judiciously non-committal. But the thud was audible above the din of the newsroom when their eyebrows hit the ceiling.
My colleagues at the newsdesk, on the other hand, had no need whatsoever for restraint. The shock lasted for a split second, then the laughter rolled in. "It’s not yet Halloween!" our resident --itch (you fill in the consonant) cackled. "Pagtapos ng parade," one not-so-wise guy wanted to know, "ikaw ba yung ipapako sa crus?" Heathens–every single one of them.
I was reminded of this missed honor when I found myself stuck in traffic in the Sta. Mesa area for a good half hour one night last week because the neighborhood was having its fiesta and Santacruzan. Illumined by a succession of headlights (of all the cars unable to move) the princesses paraded by, all dolled up and ready to rock-and-roll– first the tiny ones led along by parents or relatives, then the grown-ups carefully picking their way on high heels down the narrow road muddy from an earlier downpour. Several paused for photos, souvenirs of the time they were princess for a night. The escorts looked uncomfortable and impatient in ill-fitting barongs, streaked and highlighted hair suavely gelled. At the nearby basketball court where, I assume, the parade would wind up, dancing was–pardon the pun–in full swing.
Having seen, up close, what glory could have been mine, I have to live with the fact that this is one item I will not have on my resumé. I suppose it would‘ve been nice to wear a tiara, but I probably would have stepped on the ruffled hem of my gossamer gown and fell flat on my face one minute into the parade. Next to running for public office, this is one of those things I think I can safely say "never" to.
But hey, it was a blast to have been asked.