For the first time in my entire life, I got scammed.

I thought I was smart enough not to be fooled, but here I am.

I was on Facebook, mindlessly viewing how my friends spent the last 24 hours. And in the middle of these stories, I came across a video ad. I didn't even bother to watch it but this fat, arthritic thumb accidentally tapped the link when what I was trying to do was swipe forward. Curse this high-speed internet and fast-processing phone, the Shein app opened before I can tap the back button (or maybe my fat, arthritic thumb was just painfully slow).

I have always talked about my shoes. Thought maybe I'd also talk about my feet. Haha. 

Ugh. 🙄 

And here's the thing: I don't like my feet because they're ugly. 

You could say they're a whole new level of hideous. Dry, cracked, calloused, wrinkly, and veiny. 

(Which does not make the topic any better.) 

No amount of moisturizer, color, pedicure, special beauty treatment, or maybe even plastic surgery will make my feet conventionally beautiful. 

I've tried most of it all.

But unlike Eve, the devil had nothing to do with it.

I remember reading a friend's post on Facebook that said he will never ride the jeepney ever again. Another also shared about his first jeepney ride after so many years like it's a lifetime achievement or something. Knowing that they're not even someone you can consider rich, I was so quick to silently judge them for being maarte and hambog. 

You see, I grew up riding the public transpo. I have been commuting daily since I started kindergarten and I am well-aware how poor the public transportation system in our country is. DIRTY. CROWDED. HOT. Not to mention, it can also be DANGEROUS knowing how public transpo drivers can be ruthless and aggressive. You have to watch out for perverts and pickpockets, too. 

But as dreadful as it may sound, such things never really bothered me. 

Well, I didn't have a choice.

Warning: Too much information. Skip if you're easily offended or grossed out.

"Have you had your dinner already?" Mama asked.

"Yes," Red replied.

"Was it delicious?"

"Yes! Where did you buy it?"

That would have been an insult. It certainly is my son's indirect way of saying that I cannot make something appetizing. I couldn't blame him though. For ten years he tolerated my awful concoctions. But! Being introduced to bad food early on is one of the reasons why he is not a picky eater, or so I would like to believe. Motherhood did not really put my mediocre cooking skills into practice. Give my son some green, leafy salad with bagoong (kangkong, squash leaves, or kamote, topped with tomato and onions) and he will eat it right away. So why bother with a complicated recipe?

"How does it feel like?"

"Nothing has really changed," I said flatly.

"Wait until the honeymoon phase is over."

I have been asked this question over and over again for weeks now and I have been repeating my answer with the same flat face. And it is not because I am less enthusiastic about it. It is just that, I do not want to engage in a conversation and delve into details about the brutal truths I wished somebody told me about before getting married.

One of the reasons why I never wore a ring or a nail polish is because I do not want to draw attention to my ugly man hands. I never really liked my hands.

I've got big knuckles, probably from the knuckle-popping which I am so fond of since fourth grade. I've got big veins that can give any nurse an orgasm, and it sure does make my hands look masculine. I've got wrinkly hands that look ten years older than I really am to which no amount of lotion or moisturizer can help.

Believe it or not, my childhood friend used to envy my thin and lovely fingers; she'd call it kandilaon. And perhaps you are wondering how did they get this way.

It's 2017.

Remember when I said I've never had any Starbucks before? Well, just recently, I've had one when Renz and I decided to do our planning at Starbucks for our second public speaking stint. That was my first time to hang out at Starbucks.

Ever.