Serendipity
By Joanne Marie Combong-Pijuan

Summer tales (Part I)

It's that time of the year again. Ahh! Summer! For some people, women in particular, it's the time of the year when panic strikes and the search for the “perfect” swimsuit begins (meaning: a swimsuit that could hide all flaws, reduce body weight, and minimize if not completely eradicate all traces of cellulite). For the more liberal and “body forward”, it's a time for penance – the kind of self-mortification that involves waxes, razors, tweezers and the use of other similar bikini line-plucking device (think Brazilian).

For the men, it's a time when they start believing in miracles -- especially after enrolling in a mega-intensive gut-trimming program for that trip to Boracay which is less than four days away. And for the kids, summer is simply fun (meaning: thank God I won't see the class bully who keeps getting my baon at pencil-point for the next two months – yippee!).

Summer means different things to different people. It could be a curse for some because of the unforgiving heat and a blessing to others (especially for men – the hotter it is, the more revealing the clothes are of the opposite sex). But for me, summer has always been more than just a trip to the beach or a time to show off my 36-24-36 figure in a skimpy thong bikini (simply because I don't have a 36-24-36 figure and I've never owned a thong bikini in my life. Butt cracks and cheeks are meant to be hidden and not exposed for the entire world to see – even fish get traumatized). Summer for me has always been a time for self-discovery, of coming of age (yes, before and after hitting 30), and of finding what life is really all about.

I remember quite vividly a summer I spent in Negros when I was 11 years old. This was the summer when I first found out why long distance relationships will never work out – especially when you're 11 years old and when text messaging was still an alien concept. We stayed in this nice house inside Philsucom Compound in La Carlota City. The compound had a huge swimming pool, two tennis courts, a clubhouse, and paved streets where kids biked and roller-skated. My cousins lived in the house across ours and everyday we would swim, play tennis or just hang out with other kids who also lived in the compound.

It was during one of those swimming sessions that I met this hunky (of course I didn't know what “hunky” really meant during that time) 12-year old boy with brown hair (Caucasian gene pool, peroxide, or too much chlorinated water – I surmised from the latter). “Hunky” and I hit it off quite well during that first meeting (notwithstanding my ruffled one-piece swimsuit that did absolutely nothing for my emaciated, pubescent, stick figure). And it was then that I realized that contrary to what other women might think, “substance” will always overshadow “form”. Obviously, I won “Hunky” over with my alluring charm, sharp wit, and wise-ass humor and not because of my figure (I had a “1” instead of the requisite “8”).

So like two puppies in love, we talked, hung out, took walks, held hands, and ate sugar cane (we were living in the middle of a sugar cane plantation what do you expect?). Life was blissful, sweet (literally), and beautiful – until the time came when I had to say goodbye. Summer was over.

(To be continued)