“Meh. Wala ka naming alam na gawaing bahay so you’ll never be a good
housewife”, I told you once while talking about how you see yourself in the
near future.
“Gusto ko yung mayamang housewife na right after maghatid sa school ng mga
bata, shopping agad or spa. Dapat kasi meron namang katulong” , you
argued in reply.
That right
there is the reason why I think you’ll never be a plain housewife – because you’ll never ever be plain.
Your demeanor
is far from being simple. You are a walking conspiracy. You’re a Megan Fox
wrapped in a Zooey Deschanel’s body. Your frail physique hides the fact that
you’re as feisty as four black ghetto girls combined. Your innocent face disguises
the maturity and sensibleness you have. Your good girl image gets you out of
trouble for being so adamant and brutally frank. Plus, you can out eat any
blue-collared job worker at any given day of the week.
And you’ve taught me lessons sometimes I unwillingly
have to learn. Albeit the bullying part, you’re the only girl who could shoot
down my ego and send me crashing back to reality in a jiffy. You’re that girl
who’ll tell me how goofy my hair looks and how I never should wear white ever.
We could talk absolutely about everything; no matter how trivial they may sound
– from pesky officemates to our greatest love and how eating chicken could turn
you gay.
You have been my security blanket (aside from my beard),
my source of “confidence”. I’m your pseudo-bf when he’s not around, your source
of “wisdom”. We’re partners in crime, Bonnie and Clyde. And I’m afraid that’s
going to change sooner than I would be ready for.
I dread the
fact that one morning, I’ll walk into an office and I’ll never find you there.
When that happens, I’ll be the saddest hairy guy in the world. I know it’ll be
for the better. After all, we need to spread the awesomeness that’s us. You’ll
definitely leave a gaping void in my heart that no other girl could ever fill.
But until that day happens, you would still be my flat-chested bitch who’ll
never ever be a plain housewife.
