Bottled Sky

My friend Chrissa and I were having one of our phone marathons recently, and we got to talking about our kindergarten days. (We both attended CSA Makati from kindergarten to high school.) I asked her if she could recall the time we were required to view a morbidly detailed presentation about the life and death of Lorenzo Ruiz, the first Filipino saint. For her it was only a vague memory; I could still remember it like it was yesterday.

It was the anniversary of Lorenzo Ruiz’ canonization, and for some crazy reason the school administration thought it was a good idea to present a diorama depicting the events that made him a martyr to a bunch of impressionable five- and six-year-olds. The guy was tortured for refusing to denounce his faith. His captors hung him upside down with his head buried in muck, drove metal spikes under his fingernails, and jumped on his stomach after forcing him to drink copious amounts of water. Now picture all that in lifelike miniature. I had nightmares after seeing that diorama!

They say early childhood trauma greatly affects how a person turns out later in life. Could that gruesome display be partly to blame for Chrissa’s and my slight strangeness? Could that premature awareness of water torture be the reason that I have to pee every other minute and that Chrissa drinks much less than the recommended eight glasses a day? Could that morbid diorama be why we were the only two people out of a packed movie house who laughed out loud when a guy—strapped to a wheelchair in his underwear and engulfed in flames—rolled down the street in Red Dragon? (We were honestly surprised that nobody else thought that scene was funny.)

Have we been scarred for life?

Taking a cue from my traveling book, one of my favorite pairs of pants has left me for Germany. My aunt, who lives there, stayed with us for a couple of weeks in November. She went back home just before the holidays, and my pants were accidentally mixed in with her luggage.

Although I’m a little bummed about losing those pants, I can’t help but be amused that another of my possessions has reached Europe before me. Plus, I can’t really complain, because although I lost a pair of pants, I gained three cocktail dresses that my aunt generously bequeathed to me before she left. Sure, they look like they belong more in the costume department of a bad 80’s movie than in my closet, but at least they’re, um, interesting.

• Dress # 1 is bright purple with a fully-sequined bustier top and a skirt made of shiny, metallic fur (I kid you not). It also comes with a matching shawl made of the same furry fabric.
• Dress # 2 has a black satin bodice and a ruffled, gold-and-peach skirt. I don’t know what that gold fabric is called. I asked my mom, but the only thing she could say was that it looked like crinkled candy wrapper There’s also a wide ruffle that runs around the bust area, which my aunt says is supposed to make the wearer look like a flower.
• Dress # 3 is made of black brocade and adorned with a big bow on the front. It’s actually pretty tame compared to the other two.

All three dresses fall just above the knee. In case you’re having trouble imagining what they look like, here’s a visual aid:

All I need now are 3-foot-high bangs and a costume party to attend. Does anyone want to join me? I’d probably wear the furry, sequined wonder; you can pick from the other two dresses.

My name is Nikki, and I am a shoe addict. I don’t remember exactly how or when my addiction started, but I do know that I’ve been hooked on footwear for at least seven years. I exhibit all the classic signs of shoe addiction. For example,

• “I want to buy new shoes!” is my first thought every time I walk into a mall or whenever I get my hands on some extra cash;
• I buy ridiculously uncomfortable shoes only because they look sexy on my feet;
• I wear aforementioned ridiculously uncomfortable shoes to school, the mall and everywhere else even if they give me blisters the size of small countries;
• I have four times as many pairs of shoes as I do pants;
• I believe that there is no such thing as owning too many pairs of shoes.

Yes, I know all about the horrific things that stilettos can do to a person’s health, and believe me, I’ve tried time and again to control my shoe spending. Unfortunately, I simply cannot resist the lure of pretty footwear and always crack after a few months of resistance.

One wonderful thing has come out of this obsession, though. It led me to make peace with my feet. My feet are a bit on the wide side, and I used to despise them. During my foot-hating years I wore only closed shoes — absolutely nothing with an open toe.

My obsession with shoes changed all that. It made me realize that life was too short for brooding over things I couldn’t change. It helped me come to the conclusion that it was pointless to waste all my time hiding my feet when there were so many beautiful shoes waiting to be worn.

So bring on the blisters! I say they’re worth it. Besides, it could be worse. At least I’m not hooked on crack