The sadistic retreat master knew precisely which button to push to make Class 6-A bawl like newborns. Edwin, the class jock, was the first to cry in the hot seat, prompting Julie to whisper “he’s so cute” to Mary. After him was Alex, the resident bully. He too ended up as a sobbing, hiccuping mess, much to the schadenfreude of Erwin, whose WWF magazines Alex had snitched. Even Ray, our “special” classmate, whose palette of expressions normally ranged from giddy to catatonic, was made to blink a few tears.
Then there was Ruth.
Usually self-conscious and reserved, Ruth cried in the hot seat like a grieving Palestinian widow. It was an oddly compelling sight. Fat tears, raw emotions, and nasal mucus mixed to transform Ruth’s pretty face to a puddle of inconsolable sadness. At one point, she even licked the goo that dripped from her nose, eliciting a “Yuck” from Alex, an “Oh” from Mary, and an unspoken “Damn, how can I possibly top that?” from me.
Ah, me. When my turn came, I thought of the most depressing things in a calculated bid to outdo Ruth. Things like my unrequited desire for PJ, who, according to Julie, just got a gold-plated key-chain for Wendy. Moving to a new and bigger high school after graduation and feeling out-of-place among strangers. Not getting enough parental attention. Being gay.
Sure enough, I turned on the waterworks in a manner that evoked a leaking fire hydrant. Tissues couldn't keep up with me. But even so, I’d be the first to concede that my weepy act was only first runner-up to Ruth’s epic meltdown. She clearly had A Moment and the melodramatist in me wondered when I would ever have one myself.
***
January 4, 2009.
It was supposed to be a routine shower. Shampoo, soap, rinse, dry. But somewhere between shampoo and soap, things got a little, shall we say, intense. The stereo, which was hooked to my iPod, started playing Pink’s I Don’t Believe You, a ballad you’d likely hear in a TV drama after the doctor tells someone that their loved one “didn’t make it.” Not the feel-good ditty of the year. Also not the kind of song I should be listening barely a day after my three-year relationship had abruptly ended with me still confused with the reasons why.
Much as I wanted to stop the music, I couldn't. I was held hostage by the seemingly autobiographical lyrics, the lachrymose violins, and Pink's raspy pleas.
No I don’t believe you
When you say, ‘don’t come around here no more.’
I won’t remind you
You said we wouldn’t be apart.
No I don’t believe you
When you say you don’t need me anymore.
So don’t pretend to
Not love me at all.
Just don’t stand there and watch me fall.
That's when the Pacific Ocean busted out of my eyes. The pain of losing something special, the reality of being alone, and the uncertainty of future happiness kicked me hard in the ballsac, leaving me huddled in a corner, wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing while Pink continued to torment me with her denials. It was the lowest point of my existence, surpassing even the time I played Cinderella’s evil step-mom for a class play with my parents in the audience. (No lack of parental attention there.) I was in The Moment.
By sheer chance (the iPod was on shuffle mode), a succession of power ballads followed. Celine Dion’s All By Myself, Mariah Carey’s Without You, and Whitney Houston’s “Will Always Love You. The Holy Trinity of Heartbreak Songs. Just when I thought I had sunk to the bottom, I found myself free-falling to a deeper abyss, awashed with saline and MAYNILAD water.
When Whitney glory-noted the final chorus, self-awareness and dementia seeped in and I began to wonder how I would appear on the big screen if my life was a tearjerker directed by Carlos Siguion-Reyna. Would the audience prefer a subtle but nuanced lamentation or wet hysterics of Vilmanian proportions? I decided to go for something in between. Thus, with tears oiling down my cheeks, I clutched my hair with one hand and raised my other hand towards the shower head, as if it was a beam of light shining down the heavens, signifying deliverance to the unwanted and unloved. (Top that, Ruth.)
Whitney’s voice gradually faded into silence and a brief lull preceded the next song. Charged with dramatic inertia, I considered biting my trembling knuckles for added effect. And then…
Oh. My. God.
Becky, look at her butt.
It is sooo big...
I like big butts and I cannot lie.
You other brothers can’t deny
That when a girl walks in...
Aghast, I jumped, slid towards the stereo, and stopped this rather exuberant ode to the female derriere before it got to the more raunchier parts. I scrolled the iPod for tunes that would revive The Moment --- One Last Cry? Unbreak My Heart? Bohemian Rhapsody?--- but eventually gave up, realizing that The Moment had passed.
And with Sir Mix-A-Lot’s Baby Got Back as my LSS, I allowed myself to smile a little.
