Mismatched

Do opposites really attract? Don’t we ask ourselves this question every time we see couples with stark aesthetic differences? Never mind the slight disparities in height, weight, or facial features— these are normal, maybe even expected. But we speak here of extremes, of the comically incongruous, of the downright absurd and incomprehensible, of those that make our jaws drop and make us think, “What the heck?”

One classic example would be the five-year-marriage of blonde bombshell Marilyn Monroe and cerebral, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, Arthur Miller in the ‘50s. When pressed for a reason for her hookup with Miller, Monroe said she valued his intelligence and sensitivity. Miller, on the other hand, cited her “enormous sense of play, inventiveness and unexpectedness.” In other words, as many claimed, he couldn’t get over the fact that he got the girl.

Another example would be the pairing up of ‘80s supermodel Paulina Porizkova, who looks like an incarnation of the goddess Aphrodite, and Ric Ocasek, front man for the pop group The Cars, who may best be described as alien-like. However disconcerting their union might be, it is obviously founded on solid ground because, 24 years and two children later, they remain happily married. So men can go on scratching their heads about these two; they shall remain tightly bonded.

Then there was the Claudia Schiffer and David Copperfield hookup that almost sent the entire male population up in arms in the ‘90s. How the nerdy conjurer won the supermodel is a feat a million times more impressive than his celebrated stunts — walking through the Great Wall of China or making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

And just how a low-key, mumbling country singer like Lyle Lovett with his Brill-O pad hairdo snagged America’s sweetheart, Julia Roberts, will forever remain a mystery and a sore point for the entire universe to ponder.

And finally, in recent years, Latin singer Marc Anthony has proven that lightning does strike twice.

This skinny Grammy-award winning artist was married to former Miss Universe Dayanara Torres (no stranger to the Philippines) and is now remarried to Hollywood superstar, Jennifer Lopez and is father to their twins.

True, such couplings confound most people’s aesthetic sensibilities, but it’s nowhere near as disturbing as when the personalities of those involved are polar opposites. It is more logically acceptable for two people to be mismatched in physical attributes because they may actually converge on the very basic level of compatibility — something they need at the very least to sustain the relationship. They may happen to share the same hobbies, or be passionate about the same sports; or, on a more elevated level, they may truly stimulate each other mentally or spiritually; and in the most romantic sense, they may possess a deep affection for each other. These factors are definitely fuel for any relationship and they can turbo-charge unions for very long periods.

Let’s take the case of a friend — a whip-smart, high-powered, good-looking businessman, to whom success came very early, sometime in his mid-20s — and not because of luck but because of sheer genius. He had a long-time girlfriend who was a summa cum laude graduate of the same business school he went to and was, in fact, his equal in looks and smarts.

So it was to the surprise of all concerned when he turned around and married a very unassuming lady with a simple mind and an uncomplicated life — okay, boring, basically.

I asked him about this because I couldn’t contain my bafflement: “Why her?”

He answered: “Because being with the other one was just too stressful. I don’t want to come home to someone who will engage me in mental sparring. I do that all day at work. I want peace and quiet at home. Besides, I don’t want to live the rest of my life in mortal fear.”
“Fear of what?” I asked, still confused.

“Of being found out,” he explained. “Of her proving one day that she is ultimately better than me.”

And what of couples, who are like night and day when it comes to appetites for adventure? I know of one in which the husband is an avid extreme sportsman and the wife is an introvert who prefers to sit at home and cross-stitch. They spend weeks apart: he chasing after the high of cheating death yet again; she stoking the hearth and counting the minutes to his return.

This venture into the realm of mismatched couples was instigated by something I had witnessed at a formal dinner dance recently. We shared a table with this couple that, from the very beginning, seemed as ill-fitted to one another as a clown suit on a skinny man. The husband, resplendent as a thousand-watt bulb and dapper in a cream tuxedo, enveloped us immediately in a warm, electric, highly charged vibe. He was handsome and had an aura of menace about him — a definite chick magnet. He had a wild crop of salt and pepper hair, a sharp sense of humor, and a shoulder span as wide as an Olympic swimmer’s. The wife, on the other hand, was pleasant enough to look at, but her endless fidgeting and nervous demeanor cancelled out all the charm she may have had. She spent the entire evening monitoring all of her husband’s moves. Her eyes were glued fast to him and she held her breath in anticipation of all his actions.

It was puzzling because he did ask her to dance several times, but she refused over and over again. She craned her neck to follow his steps across the expanse of the dance floor each time he found some other partner to boogie with. I sat quietly and observed her, fascinated by the neurosis that seemed to drive this woman, who, from time to time, seemed to be teetering at the edge of sanity. Every time her husband smiled or waved — something he did almost all night — she would snap her head toward whatever direction his gesture had been thrown. If it was directed at a woman, she would give her the evil eye. I could feel hear her breathing heavily and could see her eyes afire with malice and her fists balled by her sides like a woman scorned. Sheesh, I thought to myself, how could someone make herself that miserable? Didn’t she want to boogie and have as much fun as her husband was clearly having?

Once, when the husband exited — to visit the restroom, I presumed — she bolted out of her chair and dashed out to follow him. I, consumed with curiosity, figured that that opportunity to use the restroom was as good a time as any, so I did. I bumped into her pacing the lobby, highly agitated, and darting from one corner of the place to the other. “Looking for your husband?” I asked.

It was an almost-innocent question, but she took it the wrong way. “Of course not!” she scoffed. “Oh,” I continued, “I bet you just want to work off the big dinner you ate,” then I scampered away from her line of fire.

Back at the table, I saw her husband, comfortably seated in his chair. So I asked him where he had been because his wife had been looking frantically for him.

He chuckled and said, “I went for a smoke. Pardon the Gestapo — oh, I mean the wife — she gets that way all the time.”
“What way?” I said, feigning ignorance.

“You, know, that way — like a rabid, jealous wife, wanting to poke her nose into everything I do.”

“And this is okay with you?” I pried, since he seemed all too willing to spill it out.
“Yeah, no sweat.”

“Oh, you like the dance; this little tango you play with her?”

He guffawed. “Well, now that you’ve put it in such an interesting way, yes, I do.” He guffawed some more.

I spent the rest of the evening contemplating the state of their union: a party animal of a husband, and a miserable, nosy wife, running after her own tail, haunted by her own ghosts.

I asked my companion that evening, who had witnessed all of it as well, what he thought of this entire business of mismatched couples, especially the one right beside us. I said to him, “How can that man stay married to someone like that? She gives women a bad name — all that sleuthing and snooping.” In his infinite wisdom, he answered, “What else is there to say? It makes for an interesting life.”

Good Eats

Piece de resistance: creme brulee and sticky toffee pudding

Crispy Crackling Pork Belly

Half a roast duck

Soft shell crab on a bed of sprouts

Dinner last night was at Coopers with my Sydney family. My best friend and benefactor, Mike A. provided us with champagne and food that was simply amazing! Je suis un cochon!

This is the Life

I spent today at Bondi Beach with Kitty and posse. Here I find peace and here I want to stay. Being with the young and the carefree and feeding off of their positive energy and their hopefulness is as much head as one gets out of a few flutes of champagne. Add in the ocean and the cloudless sky and you've got the recipe for paradise.

Magnificent Obsession

The last time I was here, I ate in this restaurant almost every day. It is a Thai vegetarian joint called GREEN PALACE over at King's Street in Newtown. For some reason I am addicted to the food. In fact, even after I had long returned to Manila, I continued to crave it. So, yesterday, after unloading my luggage at Kitty's place, I trooped over to Green Palace and had the sesame soy chicken and tofu curry over sticky rice. Yummmmm!

Please be informed that vegemeat is used in all the dishes but hey, I couldn't tell. The texture and taste could have fooled me and there is absolutely no aftertaste whatsoever. So, yes, I will be eating there everyday, if I could, unless Kitty points a gun at my head. But then again, I could try wrestling away from gunpoint...anything to get my Green Palace fix!

Kat's Cradle

A shout out from Sydney...

Sydney had a pleasant surprise for me as I walked out of the airport's double doors today: sunshine! Last time I was here, it was the dead of winter--seven to fifteen below--and I froze my buns off. And of course, I was welcomed by the sunshine of Sydney herself, Kitty, who has been at MacQuarie Uni for sometime now and finishing next year.

Nothing can go wrong with the world now that I'm with here. There is comfort, there is peace of mind, there is bliss, of the kind money can't buy and other mortals except one's own children can ever provide.

We went straight to her apartment from the airport and of course, it is a surfer's/skater's/musician's den, what with all the paraphernalia sitting around like land mines, which I had to maneuver around. Still and all, it is her home, filled all things she loves. So then, I am home too.

P.S.
What did I say about patriotism? Notice the Philippine flag hanging in the corner of the living area...and oh, the laundry...a full load awaits me...I look forward to it, though. There's nothing as therapeutic as hearing the churn and hum of the washer and drier especially if you're doing it for someone other than Cruella Deville, someone you actually adore...

15 Children

Fifteen six-year-olds visited with us today. Mouse's first grade class came in for a field trip in line with their Unit of Inquiry on different types of houses. Mouse assumed the role of tour guide and with much confidence she showed them around. I could see that she was very pleased with herself because of a task well done. This is how children build up their self esteem, I think, by piling up little building blocks of feel-good moments to eventually erect a massive tower of strength.

I will never cease to be fascinated by the curiosity, the energy, the imagination, and the charm of little children. They see the world with such awe and positivity that I become secretly embarrassed by how jaded I have become. Being around them is like being exposed to a powerful life source. Simply fascinating. But then again, I say that because they are not mine and I only had to spend one hour with them, tops. If they were mine and had to handle them 24-forever, I would probably all push them into the pool. Kidding!

Pasalubong

I leave for Sydney, Australia, to visit Kitty tomorrow and I can't wait! I have been racking my brain for pasalubong material to giveaway to friends over there and I think I just found the perfect ones.

Remember the Collezione shirts of old? Well, they have been reincarnated by no less than innovative designer, Rhett Eala into statement shirts that come in superior fabrics and friendly price points.

I find that the longer my two daughters stay abroad for school, the more nationalistic they become. They have become hyper aware of their heritage and their provenance. I believe it is something that distance awakens in someone--this love of country.

And so tada! Don't you think they're perfect. At P500 each, not bad! They are sold in botiques called C2 by Collezione located in Market Market and Robinson's Galleria.

The Eternal Boy

We have all met this type of man, this eternal boy. Most of us may have known him fairly intimately as the philandering partner, the irresponsible son, the black sheep sibling, the friend who is always the life of the party, or the elusive boyfriend one just can’t let go of, and yet have never been quite able to touch on his mercurial behavior. He is the perpetual adolescent who is dashing and exciting, and who likes to live dangerously. He has perfected the art of sweeping women off their feet but is totally unable to commit to a relationship. He is Peter Pan. He is James Bond. He is George Clooney. He is the late John-John Kennedy (not John F. Kennedy Jr. as he later came to be known in his adult life) or “Peter Pan with pecs,” as some American pop culture specialists had christened him.

I had gotten to know more of this eternal boy in theory and concept when I attended a workshop conducted by the Friends of Jung Society Philippines on Exploring the Self. Jungian analyst, Marie Louise von Franz (1915-1998), luminary disciple of Carl Jung for 30 years, called this, Puer Aeternus, latin for eternal boy.

This man remains a perpetual 17 or 18-year-old in adulthood, who, despite having everything: financial security; fulfilling job; perfect companion, is afflicted with a vague but discontent. It is a general dissatisfaction that, when verbally expressed, comes out as, “Nothing…but…” in answer to the question, “What’s wrong?” When outsiders assess his life, they ask themselves, “Why can’t he seem to settle down, he’s got everything?” Women, whom the eternal boy attracts in droves because of his extraordinary charm, delude themselves into thinking that they just might be the chosen ones to finally tame him into domesticity. But sooner or later, when the bored and anxious multi-headed monster inside the eternal boy finally surfaces, the stress and the frustration shred the women’s self-esteem because of failure to pin him down and make an honest man out of him.

Filipino society, which remains conservative in the matter of domestic arrangements, where church marriages remain the norm, and cohabitations and casual long-term liaisons are still frowned upon, the slippery eternal boy has been labeled a deviant. This elusiveness has been called a “problem” by older people; a personality disorder by some professionals; or commitment phobia by women who are after an engagement ring. His mother may quickly come to his defense by saying, “Oh, he just hasn’t found the right girl, yet,” depending on the degree of her attachment to him. If she is the rabid sort of Pinoy mother, who has made managing her son’s affairs her vocation in life, she may the one personally responsible for shooing away all the women who may be prospective partners.

Parents and friends of women he has wronged have condemned the eternal boy by tagging him playboy, or pabling, or even gago. What we may not be aware of is that the phenomenon of the eternal boy is deeply rooted in his relationship with his mother. He may not be inherently bad. He is simply trapped in what we have come to know as the Mama’s Boy syndrome. And since his mother has orchestrated this dysfunctional relationship since the eternal boy’s birth, his fate has been completely out of his control. In other words he did not have a choice; he did not bring this upon himself.

This phenomenon happens when a mother fails to find emotional fulfillment from her own husband. Her tendency is to redirect these needs to her son. Both become emotionally welded to each other in the process. The son becomes the mother’s emotional husband, thus the term “Emotional Incest,” which has come out of late as a more graphic description of the dysfunctional alliance. This results in the son’s inability to relate to women his own age and to sustain meaningful relationships.

When he grows up, every time an eternal boy zeroes in on a woman of choice, he projects his mother’s image on to her and does everything in his capacity to win her. But the moment he has taken possession of her, he disengages, because the nagging feeling of the what else is there syndrome or the is this all there is syndrome sets in, yet again.

Jungian analysis shows that the eternal boy has been made to feel special very early on either by his mother, or by himself. This latter phenomenon happens when a boy is neglected, making him resort to creating his own fantasy of being special. Whichever the case, the underlying concept is the feeling of being special. However, the self-inflicted mode of thinking is said to be more harmful than that instilled by the mother because the latter is a form of delusion.

Everything for the eternal boy is provisional and temporary. He is unable to commit to any long-term relationship because of the fear that the situation is ultimately not where he wants to be. This attitude may last an entire lifetime. He is said to have a Messianic or Savior complex. He enjoys the feeling of saving someone helpless from a problematic situation. He immediately assumes the role of gallant knight in shining armor only for the rescued damsel to realize very soon that this knight will gallop away shortly after the rescue, never to return again.

The eternal boy has a fascination with danger as a form escaping reality, which to their thinking is harsh and confining. He turns to extreme sports—sky diving, racing, mountain climbing, etc.—as his ticket to getting as far away from earth as possible. He is infamously impatient and easily bored, so to avoid boredom, he turns his entire life into a game. He cannot deal with mundane matters and the tedium of the everyday. He is incapable of grounding himself in real life and is therefore not equipped to deal with family matters—playing the role of husband and father and raising children. He may try to settle down into married life but all odds point to his, one day, walking out without a care. He might have spurts of intense interest and manic performance in certain projects but for limited periods of time and this, just as easily, wanes. Holding a 9 to 5 job will be the death of him.

We may wonder why many women are attracted to the eternal boy even with all his glaring flaws, but the truth is, he is extremely hard to resist. There is always something otherworldly about him. He is charming and effervescent like champagne and one gets heady and giddy in his company. When he speaks, he sounds very mature and full of empathy, which is misleading because he is not in touch with his true self.

The question that needs to be addressed then is, “Is there redemption for the eternal boy?” Jungian psychology has always been about transformation and individuation so, yes, there is. Self-awareness is key. If the eternal boy becomes fully aware of his plight, he can start his own transformation by stepping away from his mother’s clutches. In other societies, military service is a viable option that will have profound effects. While our own culture doesn’t make it easy for men to become adults because of the “doting Filipina mother” syndrome and the “live at home until you’re married no matter how long it takes” syndrome, sending a son to study abroad or in another city—anything that involves physical separation—will do the job.

The task will be a bloody one. Imagine having to extricate oneself from a mother who follows a toddler son’s every step, who lovingly wipes his brow and inserts a lampin under his shirt to absorb sweat, who spoon-feeds him and bathes him long after he has learned to do so himself, who provides him with a yaya, who becomes the surrogate in her brief absences, who demands calls or text messages from him several times a day, and who refuses to send him away for vacation or for studies because she might die of loneliness but masks it as concern for his safety.

But there is good news: even if the mother refuses to let her eternal boy go, he may save himself by completely disengaging and moving somewhere far from her reaches.

There is that cliché, “A boy can only grow up once he breaks his mother’s heart,” that may have been coined precisely for this situation. But for this to be consummated, once the son disengages, the mother, in her devastation, must acknowledge the offense and the hurt. There is an anecdote on how one stubborn mother tried desperately to cling to his son. He intentionally committed indiscretions to cut her apron strings and in one confrontation blurted out to her, “I keep trying to break your heart but you keep forgiving me!”

So mothers, let go! Give up the mother-son drama and help make this world a better place by doing this singular, divine act of thoroughly and unconditionally letting go.

Collateral Damage

I have discovered this about all my children: during the initial years of their involvement in after-school activities like piano, violin, ballet, basketball, taekwondo, swimming lessons, etc., they struggled with the commitment to the routine of attending sessions, week after week, when they could very well be at home doing free play or burying their noses in their electronic games.

It was difficult to keep them motivated. The stress of having to argue the point of commitment and dedication and learning took its toll on both them and me time and again. I kept repeating the mantra of, "your skills define who you are," and "doing something difficult builds character," and "learning is its own reward," but somewhere in the middle of that, I started questioning them too. There were lots of tears and bargaining and it just become too emotionally taxing to keep them motivated. It was way too much effort. But just as I threw the white towel in, I noticed that at around a certain age, somewhere between 9 and 10, something clicks--they experience an aha! moment. They either begin to understand the whole point, or their body starts responding to the sport, or they develop if not an attachment, an enjoyment of the music that they play.

Belli had hers much earlier than the rest--at around eight years old, when she grew to love ballet. But it was a different story for her violin lessons. It took much longer. It was only two years ago, when she turned ten, that she came up to me and said, "I'm gonna practice some more because I really want to improve in violin." She never looked back.

So there truly is that tipping point for children, when they start to appreciate or even look forward to the lessons we enroll them in, when they truly become one with it and take it a step further on their own. So, Moms, please persevere; you just might be on the cusp of the period of reckoning. Please don't give up just yet. I promise, the aha! moment will come. It will take lots of time but it will definitely come.

It has been the same for Bidi with his basketball and taekwondo lessons. He comes home now saying, "I luuurv basketball!" or "I really wanna beat someone up in taekwondo," as a joke. What a dramatic turn around when he used to throw mega temper tantrums just to get out of having to attend lessons. He tried every trick in the book: from feigning illness to bribing me with his savings.

The same goes for Pippi with her swimming and piano lessons. Now piano playing is her pick-up activity. Straight from school in the afternoons, with backpack still slung behind her, she stands in front of the piano and plays it for long periods, oblivious to everything else. I have to actually remove the backpack from her because she thinks it's a waste of piano playing time for her to stop for one second and take it off.

The struggle, however, continues with six-year-old Mouse, who mounts a one-man revolution each time she has to go to piano and ballet lessons. I'm talking Oscar-award performances here and honestly, I feel like I'm getting too old for this. But I have got to hang on to my own words... but when I do the math--she's 6--it means I have to endure another three years of her Bella Flores-ish acting. I might not last that long.

Anyway, I shall digress onto an interesting story about Bidi's new found love affair with Teakwondo. Coach Tyrone has recently called our attention to his remarkable improvement in the last months. I credit this to his recent aha! moment concerning the sport. So, he has, in fact, gotten much stronger in his moves.

Well, last Saturday, he was forced to spar with A, an exceptional, lovable girl his age, who is a family friend, neighbor, and carpool mate. They are practically brother and sister, which is why we have repeatedly asked the coaches never to pit them against each other. But they so happened to be short on partners that day so they ended up face to face for the first time. To get to the bottom quick, A had to be taken to the ER for a fractured finger. Her Mom told me over the phone and I was in a bind on whether to tell Bidi or not because A only complained of pain long after she had gone home from the session.

"Bidi will never forgive himself if he finds out," I told A's mom, knowing how much concern and brotherly affection he has for A. A's mom said, "Don't tell him na lang." But I figured I had to because he would see the cast on Monday anyway when they ride to school together.

And so I did tell him, very gently. repeating over and over again how it wasn't his fault, and it was what was considered collateral damage. His face said it all. There were tears wanting to come out, I could clearly see, but he held back. He just kept nodding to what I had to say.

Monday came and went and when I asked him yesterday if he apologized to A in the car he said, "Yes, in the car, in school, all day, for around one million times. I really, really, want her to get better fast."

I went to Bizu and bought two big boxes of macaroons--Bidi's absolute favorite. I showed them to him and said, "I got one for A and one for you." To which he replied, "Thanks, but please give them both to her." My jaw dropped because he normally would kill for those macaroons.

Baptism by Pool Water

Last Saturday there was an International Schools Swim Meet. Pippi, together with her teammates were each signed up for two events: freestyle and breast stroke.

In order to give this story justice, I will have to paint a brief character sketch of Pippi. She is a quiet, reserved child, with a very big heart--she will give someone in need the shirt off her back and she truly delights in sharing her things with others. Most of the time, she is plagued by self-doubt--not the strongest child in the area of confidence. She is self-effacing, never wanting to call attention to herself. She guards her privacy passionately and likes to be left alone to do her business.

She was composed in the days leading up to the meet. But somehow, I knew there was something brewing because she wasn't quite her carefree self. I slept with her the night before the meet and talked about several scenarios that might happen. She started expressing anxiety. We talked some more and prayed. I told her that she should just go ahead and compete because there's nothing to be lost in the exercise and all to gain. "You're going there with nothing, so there's nothing you can possibly lose. But if you win, you can just imagine how big a thing that will be for you because you trained so hard." She fell asleep holding my hand so tight.

When we got to the venue (Brent, Mamplasan) I saw in her face, how disturbed she had become. When they started stripping down to their suits and gearing up, her tears started to fall--copious amounts in a steady stream. I hugged her and assured her that everything will be alright but inside I was losing composure as well, wondering how heartless a parent I might be for making a nine-year-old endure something terrifying like this. I kept asking myself if I was doing it for me or for her.

They proceeded with the warm-up: several laps across the 25-meter pool length. And each time she surfaced for a water break, she sobbed, tears drenching her face. She kept coming up to me asking to be taken home. It was serendipity that my good friend, psychologist Sophie Bate, mom of Pippi's teammate, Cali, was there too. I always look to her for wisdom in such matters and she said, "Let her cry. It'll be good to let it all out. She will be fine." Had she not been there I probably would have whisked Pippi home and spared her the agony.

It was Pippi's first time ever to compete and I knew that if she copped out on this one, she will never be able to live down the sense of failure, which might affect her self-confidence for a long time. I just kept telling myself that even if she doesn't finish the race, she must get in the pool. She must get in the water. She must do it, in spite of herself, in spite of her fear.

Minutes before the race she started lashing out at me, "Why did you bring me here? Why are you making me do this?" It was so easy to have simply snapped at her with as much anger but I kept calm and tried to appease her. When they called for her heat, I could see she was shaking. But I let go of everything--that was all I could do at that point.

They got up on the boards for the freestyle event. There were six competitors and she was in the middle lane. The girl on lane 6 accidentally fell from the board before the starting horn blew. The other 4 girls thought it was a start cue so they dove in. meanwhile, Pippi, who was drilled many times never to jump in without hearing the horn, hesitated, but seeing that she was the only one left outside the pool, she dove in as well. The referees called it a false start but the girls continued to race to the finish. Pippi, swam past each and every girl in spite of being the last one in and won it. After I saw how fast she swam, I felt very confident. But then, they had to do the race over again and I thought fatigue may slow her down in the next run.

Anyway, she breezed through it a second time and won first. I screamed my head off like a crazy woman trailing her from start to finish by the side of the pool. I probably would have jumped in there if there were no cordon. When she finished she was completely clueless. She didn't realize she had won it. It only sank in when they handed her the first place ribbon.

By the time she was called for the breast stroke she had already calmed down and I dare say that she appeared like she was looking forward to it. She was so relaxed that she was waving at me before she got on the board. Breast stroke is her favorite and so she breezed through it and got her second first-place ribbon!

For the rest of the day she was floating on air. The next morning I asked if it felt good to know how powerful one is inside, how great it must be to realize how one can dig deep and find so much strength and talent and bravery hiding way inside the soul. She smiled and said, "Yes, Mom." "You feel macho?" I asked her. She giggled and said, "Yes, very." I told her how lucky she is. Some people go through life shying away from challenges, never realizing how much they can do and just how far they can reach. Then she added, "Actually, that wasn't even my fastest. I was just, you know, swimming around. I can do way faster than that!" So I said to her, "Next time?" "Yes, Mom, next time."