3 months, 25 pounds, 6th place, an iPod, and the realization I'm not so physically inept after all

Over the years, I've gotten recognition for a few things. Academics, creative work, and work performance. But never anything physical.

I don't have any sports, not even volleyball. I've surrendered to the fact that I can never be in musical theater because of the two leftest feet you've ever seen. I find myself gasping after swimming just 50 meters. I've never caught a ball thrown at me, ever. If I could have flunked high school because of P.E., I probably would have. Even my posture is something Inay has to correct everytime she sees me.

But last April 4, I got my first physical recognition ever: 6th place in our office-wide weight loss contest, having lost 25 pounds, or 13.7% of my starting weight, over 90 days. I won an iPod Nano for it. Hooray for me!

I lost 25 pounds in three months, and all I have to show for it is an iPod Nano.
My consolation: I sold it at a higher price than SRP. Hahaha, thanks Cathy. :-p

The weight-loss contest was something our HR group launched last January, to promote "wellness" -- or, to put it simply, there were just too many fat people in the office already. The 15 people with the highest percentage weight loss come April 4 would win prizes.

Even before the contest was announced, I had already resolved to lose weight. P&G veterans talk about the "Freshman 15" -- the 15 pounds you gain in your first year. I myself ballooned after entering, thanks to the loads of stress and loads of food, and hardly any time and energy to exercise. I stopped weighing myself after reaching my freshman 15 -- I wasn't doing anything about it anyway, so what was the point? -- but I still kept gaining weight. And last November, I started getting chest pains, shortness of breath, and worst of all, my clothes wouldn't fit anymore. (Only when I weighed-in for the contest last January did I learn that I had already gained over 20 pounds since joining the company. Horrors!)

These were taken in Boracay, during the 2007 Christmas holidays --
a few days before the diet started,
and at the peak of my weight gain. They're funny now.
But I shudder imagining myself taking off my shirt at the beach during that trip.

That did it. Health and fashion -- plus the knowledge I would soon be moving to a new assignment which required me to look good -- meant I had damn better start getting in shape. I started on January 1, even before the contest was announced.

It started with a diet. The easy parts were: no rice (I'm more of a bread and pasta person anyway); no softdrinks (I've never been a softdrinks person); and no alcohol (I never touch beer, and wine and other drinks are a social thing). The tougher parts were: no fast food (I came from eating Big Mac meals thrice a week); no iced tea, unless brewed (I was one of those suckers who thought iced tea was a health drink, and one of those idiots who tried to maximize payout on bottomless iced tea by refilling my glass five times); and worst of all, no dessert, no sweets, no cookies (this was a killer, especially the frappuccinos, the banana smoothie, and the cookies). In retrospect, it wasn't that difficult. Except for cookies, I was still able to eat most of the stuff I love -- sandwiches, pasta, pizza, noodles; Italian, Thai, Malaysian, Japanese, Mediterranean food; and of course, yum yum, water.

Second thing was to start working out. To hell with working nights and working on weekends. There were more important things. So there came my Norma Desmond moment of stepping back into the gym -- yes, everything was as if we never said goodbye -- five times a week for two-hour workouts including 50 minutes of cardio. It's not so bad as long as you're listening to the right music. Hairspray, Wicked, and a bunch of a cappella tracks kept me occupied.

And the clincher was something I had been curious about for over a year, but never had the guts to try. Well, in my desperation, now was the best time for Bikram Yoga, which is 90 minutes of yoga in a heated room (http://www.bikramyogamanila.com). I found out on my first session that it was about more than just a heated room. Unlike the new age, dimly-lit, meditation-centric Hatha Yoga I had done two years ago, Bikram Yoga was like going through CAT all over again. The room was fully lit, the heat and the intensity of the routine had you dripping sweat like a faucet, teachers would bark orders, and they would call out your name when you'd screw up. (Eg., Betty the Thai teacher: "Shuck in yoh sshtomach, Paulo! Touch yoh foh-head to yoh knee ev-y-bah-dee! Ken!! Ish that yoh foh-head, Ken?! Tha'sh not yoh foh-head, Ken!!") Several times, I found myself wanting to collapse, or puke, or just die.

Bikram Yoga's "standing bow-pulling pose."
I'm still along way off from the perfecting the pose (that's teacher Betty at right)
but believe me, I've already made HUGE progress vs when I'm started.

But the masochist inside me kept me going back for more. After my introductory week, I signed up for a month, and then another month. After all, the weight loss was tangible, I saw my performance in class improving slowly but steadily, I felt great, and I was doing once unimaginable things like touching my forehead (foh-head!) to my knees. I loved it so much, that when I thought I'd stop Bikram for a while and just focus on the gym, I couldn't help but sign up for Bikram again after just a week (this time it was another studio in Greenhills, http://www.bikramyoga.ph, cheaper by around 20%).

So there. Today, I'm 25 pounds lighter, half my clothes are too big, and the other half of my clothes are resurrected from my pre-P&G days. For winning 6th place, I got an iPod Nano and sold it to an officemate for P8k -- it hardly made up for what I spent on Bikram Yoga, but who cares? The contest was just a bonus. More important is that I feel great and my clothes fit again. And even after winning, I'm still watching what I eat (though I might give myself one dessert a week soon), working out (I'll need to find a new soundtrack soon, Hairspray's wearing thin), and doing Bikram Yoga (maybe one day I'll actually be able to perfect that standing split).

Me and Anama on the day of the win. Anama won 11th place (I think),
but more importantly, was one of only three girls to place in the top 15.
I think I have a big ass in this photo. Anama thinks I'm developing an eating disorder.
Hahaha. Go Top Model!

The Care Bears used to say, "You can do anything, if you put your mind to it." Bee-yotch that I was, even as a kid, it made me roll my eyes no end. But as I've gotten older, I've learned Tenderheart Bear wasn't so full of crap after all.

So... anyone up for dancing lessons?

Motoring Misadventures

While cleaning out my wallet early last week, I realized that my driver's license had already was already 20 days expired. Not wanting to risk any untoward incidents on the road, I took the morning off the very next day, and renewed my license at the LTO center in Robinson's Galleria. Luckily, it all went smoothly. No accidents and no getting caught by MMDA's while my license was expired -- which was unusual, given what kind of luck I've had on the road.

I learned to drive pretty late. Just three years ago, in fact, when James gave me the practice and confidence I needed. I had taken lessons way back in 1995, but never it didn't help that my brother Jo-Ed's idea of practice was driving three nervous circles around the village on first gear. It also didn't help that, on our third and last practice session ever, Jo-Ed was teaching me to back up in a cul de sac when I exclaimed, "Oh my God, a cute guy!" -- and heard the shattering of flowerpot from behind the car. Jo-Ed didn't buy my excuse that cute guys were a rarity in our neighborhood, and that my exclamation was well-deserved. And we never got in the car together again.

That cute-guy-at-the-sari-sari-store-in-the-cul-de-sac incident might as well have been a premonition of my driving a decade later.

INCIDENT # 1. I don't know if you'd agree, but I have the weird belief that everyone has to get into a car accident once in their driving lives. That came true for me in a stupid, but luckily rather safe way. A few months into my job, I had brought the car to a research agency near the office -- note that it was actually close enough to walk, haha -- and on the way back to the office I took an alternate route. Turning into Ayala from a sidestreet, I looked left at oncoming traffic -- I remember I even had a smug smile on my face, proud that I was smart enough to look out for oncoming traffic. Apparently I wasn't smart enough, because as I looked left I hadn't realized I was gliding steadily forward -- until there came the ugly, ugly crunch of metal as my bumper rammed into the rear end of the van stopped in front of me. Smart, smart, smart. Luckily it was pretty minor -- and I had fulfilled my mandatory "once-in-my-lifetime" car accident.

INCIDENT # 2. Or so I thought. One accident in your lifetime apparently doesn't get you off the hook. Though in retrospect, incident # 2 probably wasn't really an accident -- so much as it was an act of utter idiocy.

Hangad was in two cars on the way to Bulacan for a concert in 2005 -- a whole bunch of people in Domi's van, and fewer in my car with James driving. On NLEX, one of Domi's tires burst and the van swerved suddenly. We pulled over, van then car. No one was hurt -- yet.

Initially it was fun and funny. We seized the opportunity to have a pictorial on NLEX (how often do you actually get to set foot on NLEX, after all?), and Hangad's not-so-manly-men were taking turns trying to operate the jack.

The real fun started when, more than halfway through changing the tire, JC told me that our car was still unlocked. Thanks, I told him -- and I put to work a very important lesson from childhood to always lock your car. I got into the passenger seat. The motor was still running, the radio and air-con were on. And without giving it any thought, I locked the driver's door from the passenger side, locked the passenger door -- and got back out.

The satisfied smile that my car was now safe quickly turned to a horrified frown as the realization sank in. One car key in the ignition, the other in my bag in the trunk, and all doors locked. I felt sick to my stomach as I approached James, who was taking his turn at the jack; I bent down beside him, and whispered -- "I locked the keys inside the car."

"Hindi nga?"

In fairness to James, he didn't make it any worse than it already was. We looked at several options. I called my salesman from Honda, he was no help and didn't even seem interested in helping (which is why I bought my second car from someone else, the asshole). I clambered over the concrete barriers, through a break in the fence, to ask a talyer by the service road for wire with which to pick the locks. They had wire, but I had no talent in lock-picking.

The NLEX patrol had come along by this time. With trepidation they made the only viable suggestion -- break the window nearest my bag and reach in for the key. Fine. Big sigh. Jack. Towel. And a dull weak thud against the back window. I couldn't do it.

I handed the makeshift mace to one of the patrolmen, assured him he could go ahead and do it, then ran away as far as I could, hands over my ears, unwilling to see it happen.

When I had gathered the courage to walk back to the car, there was a gaping hole where the window used to be. I reached in, grabbed my key, opened the car, cleaned out the bits of broken glass, and did my best to cover the window with plastic. (It stayed that way for a few days -- good thing the office car maintenance allowance covered the repair.) We made it to Bulacan in time for the concert. And I thanked God for getting me through what was possibly the dumbest dumb luck of my life -- and resolved to be more mindful of my car in the future.

INCIDENT # 3. I would find months later that the dumbest dumb luck was yet to come. And that I was really forgetful about lessons I ought to learn.

James and I had lunch in Rockwell to celebrate a job offer he'd gotten. After dropping him off at his office, I was in my office's basement parking lot. There should have been nothing eventful about it -- I had backed into parking slots in that same basement hundreds of times -- but I guess I underestimated the evil fire hose cabinet lurking behind me, just waiting to make my day.

From the back of my months-young hatchback (I had just joined P&G and gotten a new car), there came the ugly, ugly crunch of metal -- and then of plexiglass cracking, and shattering, and falling bit by bit in tiny shards. In the rear view mirror I could see bits of my rear window falling inwards, into the trunk. First there came a few seconds of shock. I got out of the car and saw the culprit -- the fire hose cabinet had dented the metal and bent the window -- and still in shock, climbed back into the car. With trembling hands, dialed James' number -- and that's when the wild screaming started. "ANG... TANGA... TANGA... KO!!!!"

Fortunately I had enough wits about me to check for my insurance policy, and I was smart enough to keep it in the car. I dialed the number -- fortunately again, the policy I had gotten had some kind of priority status, which meant I could just drive into Honda and have it fixed that same afternoon. Thank God.

But that meant having to get to Honda first. I sped out of the parking lot -- yes, sped, because I didn't want the added hassle of the guards blaming me for breaking the glass on their stupid fire hose cabinet. Every meter I drove, could here glass tinkling and shifting, and I had to look in the rear view mirror every so often to make sure my window was still there. It was actually amusing, on EDSA, that I was parting the traffic behind me, with cars were moving out from behind me into other lanes. On the other hand, it was NOT funny when, near Honda, I didn't see a hump and sped over it and landed hard on the ground. Surprisingly, I still had a rear window after that.

Things went smoothly at Honda. Insurance was processed quickly, the service team was very professional, and I was relieved to find out I would get my car back in two days. Even my boss was very understanding when I told him I'd be taking the afternoon off. And I was pleasantly surprised to find the premium for my car insurance renewal was lower than I thought.

INCIDENT # 4. For a year after I got my license, I was still driving license-less. That's because, after a whole day of being manhandled by the LTO, I was told to come back because the license printing machine had conked out. Not wanting to waste another whole day at LTO, I relied on my license receipt.

Until one day shortly after I got my new company car, an MMDA flagged me down for having no license plates. Confidently I showed him my LTO registration, showing that I was still within the grace period for platelessness. He nodded, then asked for my license. I handed him my receipt.

"This is one year old," he said. "You should have gotten your license card by now."

No matter how I argued about LTO machine breakdowns and my busy schedule, he made a strong argument that driving without a license was a huge offense and could land me in jail. The only thing he listened to was Ninoy Aquino, and that was the very first time I became part of the cycle of corruption.

Agitated and unwilling to get into more trouble, I drove with utmost care to the office and immediately got in a cab to get to the LTO in Pasay.

Ironically, it only took me five minutes to get my license. No more manhandling, no fixers. My taxi ride to the LTO was actually longer than my time there. Leaving the LTO, I looked up to the sky -- "You get me in trouble for something I could have easily avoided... very funny, God."

In fairness to me, it's been a while since I had a mishap on the road. And I guess the urgency with which I renewed my license shows I'm actually getting better at learning my lessons.

An end to Lactacyd envy

Ever since feminine hygiene products began TV advertising some years back, it became fairly common to hear cracks among guys such as: "Why isn't there something similar for men?"


Such cracks were apparently taken not as cracks, but as consumer insights, by some entrepreneurial soap-maker. And whoever made those cracks to mask his secret need for such a product, will now be pleased to find that, on the shelves of Mercury Drug, there awaits a product to fulfill his need:



More than that, the same entrepreneurial soap-maker was clever enough to make it a "his and hers" duo.



I just wonder though: 1) Wouldn't branding have been more consistent if it had been "Fem Tight" and "Peni Big"? Or "Peni Fresh" and "Fem Clean"? 2) Why couldn't hers have been in Tutti-Fruitti flavor too?

And on a more practical side: 3) The "hers" variant's "tightens muscle" promise is intriguing... I wonder if it'll work on stretch marks and wrinkles? If anyone has the answer, let me know.