Feed My Vanity

Here’s something that always bothered me: How do you know if you are settling?

This thought has crossed my mind since I was in high school, the likeliest time when hormones are on a rage and you thought you knew everything there is to know about love. Anyway, I only remembered this when I had coffee with a friend who never had a boyfriend her whole life, and she’s wondering how to say no to a guy who told her “I am an underachiever”. Somehow the conversation led to “How many red flags should you allow before kicking his no-good a$$ to the curb” to the eternal “what if I never find THE ONE.”

But going back to the original question: how do you know if you are settling? Where is the line between settling and being plain obnoxious that your notion of what love is supposed to be doesn’t measure up to reality? Does it mean that since you have very different ideas of what a night out should be that maybe it’s time to go on separate ways since that may fall under settling?

Is it your fault if your love life doesn’t end with happily ever after?

Also, is it your fault if you’re not one of the lucky few to have bumped into your designated THE ONE? To not be one of the lucky lucky few to find him/her?

What if you had laundry that needed folding that night and your designated THE ONE chose that very night to drop by your favorite Starbucks branch which you didn’t go to that night because you can no longer ignore that mountain of laundry you had to fold?

Just to be clear, I am in a relationship and I’m happy. I just wanted to vent because these standards we set ourselves can just be the very things that screw us.  The questions I asked are questions that never really have concrete answers, so why should there be concrete ways to know you are settling?

Of course there are the obvious reasons: domestic abuse, laziness, selfishness, a general dislike for the occult, and so on. But what if you got on so splendidly that it doesn’t seem so splendid because there is no conflict for comparison?

Oh well, it’s one of those nights. Goodnight dear imaginary readers.

I’ve never really had a problem being called “negra” (dark) when I was young. I have a selective perception of insults, you can insult me (sometimes), and I wouldn’t care. It’s just too tiring to banter and get all worked up over something that doesn’t really bother me. Plus, I’m not dark, I’m exotic. Hahaha.

That being said, I’ve never been into whitening products. But for the first time, I WILL make an exception for L’Oreal’s White Perfect.

L'Oreal White Perfect

Mostly, I like how it promises it will get rid of dark spots. I’ve been hearing that promise over and over in advertisements, but I’m a L’Oreal fan, and I was sad when they phased out Ideal Balance (I use True Match now). I am sure it will deliver.

I’ve been using the above for two days, so far, I like it. I’m 26, old enough to know the elasticity of my skin won’t last forever, enough to feel mortality, old enough to know I should take calcium supplements because I smoke and women are more susceptible to osteoporosis, old enough to know the fat on my cheeks will someday slide to… you get the picture. So I’m now making a conscious effort to slather on whatever is needed to protect the largest organ of the body, mostly because it will be cheaper than Botox in the long run.

Also, I’m not big on sunscreens, one of the biggest must-DOs of skincare. I don’t like grease, I apply enough gunk on my face every day to add sunscreen, even though it’s gunk that will save me not just from wrinkles but ultimately, skin cancer.

But L’Oreal White Perfect ain’t greasy and it has sunscreen! It shaves off a lot of seconds in my every day beautification rituals because I don’t have to force my skin to absorb it.

Going back to the dark spots, I have one pimple scar ON MY CHEEK. How prominent can it get? I work in a predominantly male industry, meaning, I’m surrounded by BOYS (take note, I said BOYS, not MEN).

The boys have dubbed my dark spot “Tamagotchi”.

Tamagotchi has been in residence for three months. I am planning to demand Tamagotchi to pay rent. But until then, I will use L’Oreal White Perfect to evict my Tamagotchi.

Anyway, here’s L’Oreal White Perfect in a nutshell:

1. More Transparent Skin:

Enriched with Melanin-Vanish™, this cream helps reduce spots and visibly brighten skin tone for a more transparent skin.

2. More healthy glow:

With Tourmaline gemstone, known to help stimulate skin microcirculation, this cream helps bring your skin a more rosy glow.

3. Protection against UV induced skin darkening:

Exposure to UV rays, especially to UVA, accelerates and intensifies the melanin production, leading to skin darkening. Enriched with powerful UV filters system, WHITE PERFECT Day Cream SPF17/PA++ provides protection against UV induced darkening and the appearance of brown spots.

Until my next post dear imaginary readers.

Last week was deadly, I kid you not. Tons of meetings, the odd event here and there, and the deadlines, oooh the deadlines OHMYPOORFREAKINBRAINCELLS. Phew.

But this week might prove far more relaxed, still busy but compared to last week, it’s a walk in the park.

Anyway, the boyfriend and me were in the car, cruising Buendia when I was seized by an inanity.

An inanity I just have to admit I dread.

Me to the Boyfriend (in a flat voice): I will be 26 soon.

Bf: What?

Me (my voice close to hysteria):  I will be 26 in THREE months.

Bf: *sigh* (he’s used to my sudden inanities, besides, he’s 28, but would say he’s 23 without any hesistation).

Mortality is one thing that we all have in common. Drop dead, and not all the money in the world can bring you back (unless your DNA is cryogenically frozen and you will be reproduced in the future, but then it still won’t be the same). I’m in a morbid mood, maybe that’s what too many deadlines do to you.

Point being, no matter how much moolah you have, you can’t really prevent the eventual wrinkles though you’ve had enough Botox to last you two lifetimes. I know that 26 is young, but maybe I’m caught up with the stereotype prerequisite of getting married, having kids, envying my batchmates who have gone down on more financial-driven paths, unlike me who wanted to be different and pursued the penniless existence of being a small fish in the world of lifestyle publications.

I remember watching Britney Spears while she first burst into the pop scene, how young she looked, but how I knew she was older than me, and my subconscious telling me there’s plenty of time being discovered in my field, in what I’m good at. Now, Britney is a mom with two kids, and a certain nuttiness about her, and starlets pile up day by day in Hollywood, and how I know that I’M older than them. I know that’s weird and I hope you get the point.

Then there’s the question “am I where I dreamt I would be at the age of 25?”, definitely not. I don’t have my own car, much less know how to drive. I’m just above minimum wage. Yes, sometimes I can be at first-name basis with personalities, but then, that doesn’t help when I want to take a vacation, or buy a new handbag. Yes, I manage to go to places where most of my friends would have to have a lot of money to go to, but then I’m just there to cover an event, and not out there making money.

Sex & the City has romanticized the life of a writer. I don’t know where the producers got the idea you can afford monthly shopping sprees of retail with people’s names attached to it. I don’t own any Loubotins, or Prada. I wish I could say I’ve held a Blahnik in my hands, much less my feet.

Quarter-life crisis sucks.

I do know I don’t want to have a mini-me yet, or walk down the aisle. But I’m also afraid of waking up one day, a wizened old woman with a few bylines but without a cent next to her name.