24.12.04; Cranky Child; 03:25
Maximum number of hours spent sleeping per day this week: 2. Gifts still unpurchased: Concealer for my cousin Macky, perfume for brother Lee, shirt for brother Louie, ??? for cousins Dex and Kay and for Dad (He once said, “Anong bonus ko sa’yo?”), black bra and foot spa machine for myself. (Read: I don’t enjoy buying gifts for males.)
God knows how I hate waiting. All my life, I have been waiting in one corner, sporting crossed arms and a scowl that nobody found menacing. Screw Filipino time.
Last night, our Team decided to have a pre-Christmas dinner/exchange gift/awarding at Dencio’s Grill in Paseo Center at 17:00. I repeat 17:00. Knowing how terrible the traffic can get around this time of the year and how faaaar my shithole is from Makati, I cut my slumber short to brave the stationary stampede. I must be too naive to assume they’d all show up on time. It’s not about the delayed gratification for my beloved stomach; it’s all about my effort and respect of their time. Is it that difficult to arrive on our agreed minute?
With boredom and annoyance as my invisible friends for a solid hour, I was already finishing off my beer when they started showing up. Usually, my face is clouded during the parade of excuses. I can’t feign my irritation, you know. Then, my pride takes over. Will I allow them enjoy themselves whilst I suffer from ill temper? No fucking way! You’d just feel the bite when you realize they wasted your time and will repeat the same feat the next time.
Of course, before leeney_v could find the voice to refute and chastise me, I admit I’ve had my share of late arrivals. But I don’t perform the fashionably late strut on purpose, except when I’m meeting someone highly dissed for his/her pathological lateness. I recall trying to be late during my last date with gumpaste to lessen heavy sighs (motorist’s mishaps always occur whenever we decide to see each other for unknown reasons) but I ended up rushing since I can’t stand being late. No matter how hard I try to adhere to my principle, this sickness can be really contagious. There was a time in my life I attended my 90-minute class 45 minutes late (much to my favourite professor’s chagrin) and the controversial 1-hour late for my Editorial Management class. The professor darted his eyes from my ‘escort’ to me then back to him and asked, “The 3-hour break is not enough [for short time]?!”
But I have risen from the ashes. Since my record is far from impeccable, I have acquired the new habit of not rubbing it to their faces that they are going to be late (because I might be late as well.) They just feel the piercing end of my smug jaw once we’re all gathered. So what’s the point of all this?