Punch air; Cross eye - A Boxing Story in Double Vision

It started with a big, and I mean obscene-blob-of-a-waistline BIG, wake up call.
I made the mistake of pestering Jiggs to send me copies of our San Francisco-Monterey trip. I should have known something was wrong when he said he couldn’t upload the photos to one of those freebie sites. The file was just too big, he said.
Soon, I’d learn why. My tech-challenged friend finally managed to send me all 70 plus photos of obscure-looking streets, somewhat-interesting curbs, striped freeway railings and a few recognizable faces.
One particular blurry photo caught my attention: I had puckered-up like a fish, attempting to mimic the hundreds of tiny sardines swimming in the aquarium above me. A herring, however, I definitely was not.
With a bulging gut that screamed “Orca,” it seemed I was destined for BIGNESS even as a creature of the sea.
Though I never really fit the svelte-seductress mold, I didn’t think I’d pass off as the “Before lypo” poster-girl either.
I guess I always thought I was just – as my parents politely put it: big-boned. Looking at the photos however, it seemed the only problem with my bones was the fat wrapped around it.
Over ice cream and brownies, I drowned in self-pity; wondering HOW those pounds and inches ended up in body parts I could no longer see (like a second gut now covered by a third).
Then, driving home one day I chanced upon a fitness enclave where scantily-clad women huffed and puffed non-existent fat out of their reed-thin bodies.
My gut, quite literally, could not have felt more out of place. But the ex-car salesman of a gym instructor sold the idea of a “reunion with my lost waistline” all too well – I signed up.
I could almost hear “Eye of the Tiger” playing in the background as I scoured through bags of old clothes for salvageable sweats.
Thank heavens for the 80s revival, I could once again put my old leggings and tights to good use. Eat your heart out, Jane Fonda.
My first destination as a registered gym member: the weights floor.
With Schwarzenegger fierceness, I looked my reflection in the eye and did the first of three sets of standing army presses.
It was quite embarrassing to grunt and gasp like Mr. Universe while raising Tinkerbell-weights. But I couldn’t help it, five-pound dumbbells are definitely enough to leave me short of breath.
Halfway through my second set, the intense stares of other iron-pumping maniacs weighed down on me. It was time to leave.
Just as I was getting ready to throw in the towel, I saw five curvaceous (read: chunky) women bending and stretching on the other side of the thick glass that separated the weights from the weighty.
On the door, it said: KICKBOXING. In my mind, it read: YOUR ONLY HOPE.
Although my last encounter with the Tae-Bo man cost my VHS player its life, I thought I’d give kickboxing a try. Seeing other women struggle to reach their toes gave me some hope.
I walked in the room, chin raised to the heavens with pride. I knew I could still bend and snap with ease - this class would be a breeze!
I picked my spot on the wooden dance floor, gave my reflection a stern “don’t-chicken-out” stare and anxiously waited for the kickboxing master.
In a minute, the speakers blasted: “One, little two, little three Macarena.”
What place did the Macarena have in an exercise class? That, I still don’t know.
Out came the instructor – bursting with Richard Simmons enthusiasm – screaming: “We will bring the Macarena-fun to kickboxing! Are you readeh?”
“Keep your eyes on your nose, keep your eyes on your nose” – she chanted while throwing punches to the air.
Being the obedient student that I was, I stared at my nose, not understanding how being cross-eyed would help me throw a meaner punch.
An hour of punching and nose-staring went by and by then, I was too dizzy to notice I had turned my neighbor into a reluctant punching bag. She asked me to sit or leave.
So I sat and waited for the class to end - Macarena tunes screeching in my ear.
Still woozy from the cross-eyed boxing experience, I approached the instructor and said: “I really enjoyed your class, but I don’t understand how everyone else managed to keep their balance while punching and staring down at their nose?”
I watched her jaw drop as her hand reached up to scratch her sweaty head. To her, my question probably sounded as stupid as her choice of music did to me.
However, not wanting to lose my business, she calmly said: “I’m sorry, I meant look at the REFLECTION of your nose in the mirror – I didn’t think I needed to be that specific.”
With that, my chin went crashing to the floor. I rubbed my belly and thought: Orca, it’s time to go home.

Bebot

For someone who weighs enough to remain grounded even with the help of Willy Wonka’s fizzy-lifting drinks, I’ve always had lofty dreams.

At 28, I still believe in Neverland, where I know I’m bound to be someday. I dream of: chocolate rivers and edible wallpaper; traveling the world in 79 days; my sister becoming the princess she’s destined to be; and of John Lennon leaving Yoko for me.

Although I never really saw myself as a princess – at least not until the likes of Fiona were elevated to princess-hood - I didn’t think settling for anyone less than a gallant prince was an option either.

While I have, unfortunately, let a few ogres into my life, I’ve managed to ward them off in recent years.

But that is another story.

Going back to my gay (I dare not say "fairy” and risk being accused of homophobic slur) tale: I guess I owe (or blame, depending on which end of the tower I'm at that day) my dad for my romantic disconnection from reality.

Introducing us to a life far from the ordinary, daddy was my and my sister’s very first knight
in shining armor, magical storyteller and bottomless well of wisdom.

I'm sure Tinie has her own stories of our chivalrous dad, whose childhood name, BEBOT, lends itself to less knightly tales -- I leave those for her to tell.

As for me, I will never forget the number of times BEBOT rescued me from mild amnesia:

I think I was about four years old when I first developed the I-forgot-I-had-feet syndrome. In my pretty little girlie dress (an oversized shirt mom got on sale at Fairmart) I would sit patiently (for a few minutes before screaming “daddy!”) and wait for BEBOT to carry me down from my tower – the top of a short flight of stairs - to the
breakfast table where queen-mommy usually waited.

In between spoonfuls of tinapa and rice, I would watch Bebot (sans dentures or puth-thi-tho) make a couple of hot pandesals disappear with several circular movements of his mouth.

My daddy’s amazing, I thought, he didn’t need teeth to eat. It was a secret power, I guess, since no one else seemed to know what he could do without his puth-thi-tho.

I’ve always felt lucky to have a hero and a magician for a dad.

Fast-forward a few years
and one too many hearty breakfasts later: when trips down the tower with an oversized teenager in tow became too daunting a mission, Bebot took his gallantry to different fronts.

By the time I turned 18, he became my official defender from the fearless-flying-multi-legged creatures that attacked in the middle of the night.

Armed with the day’s newspaper, rolled up and ready to rumble, he would charge at the pesky critters until they crunched no more.

To the Roach community of Sikatuna Village, Bebot was a monster, a killer. To me, he will always be the one who risked Life (the magazine - he used it to kill a
roach once) and limb (he now complains of shoulder pains, perhaps from all the frantic swatting he did) to save his not-quite-grown-up girl from harmless little bugs.

It’s been a while since I last called on my hero, whose shining armor has since been replaced by his shiny au naturele un-brushed up look. It would be great to go back to those days of hollering from the top of the staircase, waiting to face my day’s biggest dilemma: champorado or sinangag for breakfast (btw, I usually ended up having both).

Where I am right now, not only do roaches come from bigger and more treacherous BUSHes, decisions are also more difficult to make. Imagine having to choose between sunny-side up or scrambled; poached or hard-boiled when all I want is itlog.

But I’m slowly learning to stomp on the roaches and to find comfort in hollering from the other end of a choppy long-distance phone connection.

The real world can get really frustrating and on so many occasions, I probably would have given up had it not been for the one great lesson Bebot and his magic puth thi tho taught me: in life (or breakfast), you don’t need fangs to survive, just a lot of patience and guts (or gums, in his case.)