Just Passing By

Favored

For an outsider looking in, my workplace looks like any other office. Some of us come in the morning, still half asleep and grumpy until the first cup of coffee. Some just breeze right in, with boundless energy that makes you wonder if they're drugged or something. Then like clockwork, we all go to our desks and start tapping away. Oh yes, this office is just one lean machine aimed to hit a very specific target: $42 million in revenue by end of December.

But I'm not an outsider. Two years into this office, I and the extra chair in my cube have become magnets for anyone who cares to share his or her story. There's one story that particularly stayed with me lately. This lady is three times divorced and one hell of a writer. She and I work well together: She has a flair for words, I cut and trim and chop and voila! We produce the best marketing pieces this side of the world.

Her story makes me thank my God for giving me an easy, sheltered life. She has a very dark childhood and ran away at 16 to marry the very first boy who showed some kind of respect for her, just so she can escape being repeatedly raped by her step dad and stop the abuse that's gone on for far too long. At 19, she divorced her husband and had to pimp herself so she can feed her two kids. Her last husband hit her face with an iron (opo - plantsa) once. She gets migraines because her jaw was permanently damaged from that hit. Now at 44, she's still working on earning her bachelor's degree. She's been to hell and slowly working her way back. She's badly damaged and hopelessly broken but I admire her spirit for wanting to be whole again.

At 19, I was still blissfully unaware of the dark side of the world. I watched the news from time to time and sorta/kinda knew that violence existed but I was far too removed from any of it and remained untouched by it. The closest form of violence I ever experienced personally was when I was initiated into the sorority. Even then, it was my choice to have that much physical pain to be inflicted on me.

I've led such a blessed life that I sometimes feel that God played favorites and I am one of the lucky few He's chosen to shelter from unthinkable pain. I really don't have any right to complain about anything. God has been very good to me. I just hope that by lending my ear to poor lost souls such as this co-worker, I am able to pass on the love that has been given to me.

Hideaway

My mind is wired for Christmas. Each time I go to the mall, I make a beeline to the Holiday section. Then I stare stupidly at all the wonderful trimmings of Christmas: the towering Christmas trees, handsome and sparkling with lights; the wreaths that when hung by the door suggest what waits within the house - warm hugs and kisses from family and friends, the dinner table laden with a festive banquet perhaps? And who could resist that life-size Santa who dances and croons?

The elderly clerk stationed at the holiday section already recognizes me and gave me half a smile when he saw me coming. He knows I've been there several times since the Christmas items were displayed. I don't buy anything but he doesn't seem to mind. He probably thinks I'm a looney. I don't blame him, specially if he's heard me hum to the Christmas music and smiling to myself. That part of the store is my little hideaway. There aren't many shoppers in that area this time of year and if there were, they keep to themselves. Maybe when they're there, they also travel to a place and time in their life when Christmas was indeed merry.

To me, the holiday sections at the malls are the only places right now that tell me Christmas is coming. Everywhere else, people still have to hurdle Thanksgiving and stress over where to get their turkeys and pies. I still am not into Thanksgiving and so, instead of turkey, we'll have roast chicken. Plus, I plan to bake my very first rum cake with the kids.

So as not to alarm my gentleman friend by the corner, I reluctantly said goodbye to dancing Santa. I'll moon over the holiday displays another day.

Freeway

There weren't a lot that intimidated me when I first came in the US. As far as I can remember, I only stressed about 3 things:

1. Finding a job in line with my training
2. Being able to talk in American english with matching accent and
3. Driving the freeway

I think I've been able to overcome the first two pretty early in my stay here. Well, the American english is still rough since I still speak textbook-correct english instead of gonna-gonna, wanna-wanna and all those silly colloquialisms. But at least I no longer take offense when they say I have a cute little accent.

As for driving the freeway, that took a while. I was terrified of the aggression and the death-defying speed. Imagine merging from the ramp to the freeway at 120 km/hour? No sir, I don't want to be a highway statistic, thank you very much.

All that changed when I had to drive alone to the mountains for a conference last month. Going to Lake Tahoe meant that I needed to pass through the freeway and onto the mountain pass - a grueling 20 minutes of zigzag roads much more treacherous than Kennon  Road. I haven't even driven through Kennon Road so you bet I lost sleep at the thought of driving by myself through Mt. Rose highway and the freeway.

Two days before the conference, I practiced. I used the freeway to go to and from work. It was frustrating. I missed a lane and I ended up in another part of town. Damn the dizzyingly twisted spaghetti bowl, damn the drivers who think they're invincible, silly me for allowing all that to beat me down. So after my successful trip up and down Lake Tahoe, albeit a little missed turn that set me back a good half hour - I finally conquered my last fear!

I have been taking the freeway everyday now for the last couple of weeks or so. That saves me 10 minutes of travel time each way. Not much you say but when it's freezing in the morning and it takes that much time to get your blood to defrost, an extra 10 minutes in the morning is a blessing. 

And today, I realized I am able to sing along the radio again while driving instead of clamping my jaw for the next lane switch. The freeway no longer has power over me. To borrow a line from my ever kikay sister, Dang when she first learned how to drive: "Syet, I can't believe it... I'm part of the highway!"