Friend number two reasoned, "What’s so wrong with what Ginggay’s doing? I think it’s great that she wants to be independent. She wants her own space, she wants to show her folks that she’s old and responsible enough to live her own life."
Friend number one came back with this argument, "But what for? She’s a girl. Besides, it’s scary to live alone these days. Think of robbers and rapists. Plus, she can just stay with her family first so she can save more money and then get out of the house when she’s ready to get married. It’s just more practical."
Friend number two raised an octave, "But that’s not the point. She wants to prove that she can handle herself, that she’s mature and that marriage is not her only bail out of the house."
It was a very heated and intense argument. In fact, almost cinematic. There I was in the middle of two close pals over dinner and they were debating on an issue that primarily concerned me – like I wasn’t even there.
"Wait, guys!" I said.
And exactly at the same time, they blurted out, "Stay out of this!"
Stay out of it? What? Hey, it’s my life you’re talking about here.
Struggling to be the peacemaker, I tried changing topics, "So, how’s your food?"
Friend number one uttered, "You know what, Ginggay, you can’t even cook."
Friend number two screamed, "But she doesn’t have to. She hardly even eats."
Friend number one followed, "And who’s going to do your laundry?"
Friend number two answered, "I’m sure she’ll have a washing machine."
Friend number one added, "And who’s going to clean your house…your kitchen, your bedroom, worst, your bathroom? You do realize that bathrooms don’t clean themselves."
Friend number two continued, "She’ll survive. Buy a mop, cleanser, towels, and she’ll be fine."
Hello? Lighten up, both of you. I’m still here. Aren’t you even remotely interested in what I have to say?
They both glanced at me and asked, "So what do you have to say, Ginggay?"
I smiled at both of them, "Well, actually, I’m moving out because I want running water whenever I take a shower."
"Duh," friend number one said.
"No, listen. At home, we all get ready for work at the same time, so the water supply gets divided right away. And there are times I run out of water when there’s shampoo in my hair. That really sucks, you know," I explained.
"And, oh, by the way," I continued, "I really don’t like my brother’s dog, Boris. He barks violently at me every time I arrive home."
They flashed me this look. I really didn’t understand whether it was out of bewilderment, amusement or utter disgust.
They probably thought I was a total ditz.
"Really?" they both inquired.
"Really! Tell me, who doesn’t want flowing water, huh?"
They cracked up.
They probably thought I was humoring them to change the topic. And it worked…they stopped arguing. But the point is, I wasn’t humoring them. It was the truth. I really moved out of the house because I wanted flowing water while showering. Isn’t that enough motivation?
So when my apartment was all ready, I packed my bags and left home.
THE DECISION
Breaking up is hard to do.
Remember that. My mom was all for this move. In fact, she even oversaw the renovation of the place, the fixing of the interiors, and installing of appliances. At the back of my mind I was thinking, "Boy, my mom really wants me out. Cool!" I must have really been a headache as a child, and so when the opportunity came for her to kick me out, she just grabbed it!
It made me feel kind of unwanted, you know. Sniff, sniff. The youngest kid and the only girl at that, and my mom’s letting me go so easily. Of course, she knew I really wanted to move out, so the good mom that she is, she gave me her blessing. But of course, I would have loved to make pakipot if she had said, "No hija, stay with us na lang. Don’t leave home yet."
All my mom’s friends and my friends as well would always tell me, "It’s good your mom’s allowing you to move out." And in my head, "Yeah, and she’s really making it easy for me, too." Other kids would have to beg for this. While others, no matter how much begging they do, still aren’t allowed to move out.
All was fine after I moved out. I saw my parents every Sunday, and would call and text them several times within the week. My mom would send me food every now and then, and my dad would often check on how I was doing…if the shower heater was fine, the gas range was working, etc.
A couple of weeks later, my dad called me up and said my mom was rushed to the hospital because her blood pressure had shot up. I went to the hospital right away. I thought she was stressed from work or perhaps she got really upset over something at home. I laughed and said, "Mom, why did you get high blood, I’m not in the house na nga eh?"
She mumbled, "That’s it. I think I got high blood because you’re not in the house. What if you’re bringing boys into your house, what if you’re partying, what if you’re not eating and not taking care of yourself? I get worried."
Okay, easy mom. Breathe.
See, I told you, breaking up is hard to do.
THE MOVE
I remember it clearly. I moved out on a Friday. It took the truck four trips between my mom’s house and my apartment just to get all my stuff in. And we’re talking of personal effects, not huge appliances – just clothes, shoes, bags and books.
To say I was exhausted at the end of the day is an understatement. I was utterly exasperated, too. My legs and feet were numb and I didn’t have enough energy to get myself a glass of water. I was dead tired.
Then my friends, one by one, started calling. "Let’s go out!" These were situations I couldn’t say no to. "Okay, I’ll just dress up." I’d get up, change and head out.
This is how life’s been since I started living on my own. I try to stay home and enjoy my newfound independence but for some reason, between work and play, the only other time left for chilling out at home is night… late at night, when it’s time to sleep. Then the cycle starts again – wake up in the morning, go to work, explore a new place, go home then sleep. It gets monotonous so I inject activities like grocery shopping, house cleaning, doing the laundry, ironing…stuff like that.
During free time, I color-code my clothes. I label my bags and arrange them by height. I alphabetize my books. I fix my toiletries. I arrange my makeup on the dresser. I clean plates. I scrub the floor. And the most therapeutic of all, I clean the bathroom. I mean, my friend was right, the bathroom can’t clean itself. At some point, I had to do it because no one else would.
And my friends say, "Oh my God, you’ve become so domesticated!"
Yup, that’s the new me…domesticated.
THE LIFE
I bet you want to hear that I party every night, that I bring friends over, that we drink until we drop and that we go wild.
I wish!
Since I’ve been living alone, I’ve become so anal that no one is allowed to enter my house with his or her shoes on. My bathroom is all white so I’ll die if I see sole marks on the tiles. I can’t stand offering drinks if they put them down without a coaster and leave a mark. No one can smoke in the apartment. No one is allowed to touch my refrigerator. Everything there is already arranged and I go crazy if it’s not the way I fixed it. No wine in the sala. A drop might stain my sofa or rug. No bags on the table. No tissue papers left lying around. No water drops on the kitchen floor. No to everything. I’ve made so many rules that my friends say, "Oh my God, Ginggay, you’re no fun. Let’s just go out. Save us, please."
But because I want to enjoy my apartment, I just take a rain check most of the time, stay home, read a book and relax. I used to go out and party all the time. But now… nah. I have my beddings to take care of, my dry cleaning, my dusting… I’m trying to be responsible here!
I’ve always been a responsible person, I’m proud to say. Now multiply that a hundred times and you’ll have an idea of how I am now. I’ve become responsible to the point of being obsessive.
I save more money now, too. I’ve been sacrificing the one thing I really love: shopping. I need to pay my association dues, electricity, water bill, groceries, etc. Again, my friend was right, it makes me think sometimes that I’m out of my mind. There I was living like a princess at home, and I gave all that up to be "free." I think I was even more free when I was at home. When I wanted food, yaya cooked it for me. When I wanted this or that, yaya gave it to me. Life was easy. Why did I complicate things?
It took me years to win my parents’ trust and respect so I could move out. And now, the only thing I can think of is how to move back in. Ironic, isn’t it?
It’s no paradise living alone. While it’s fun, it’s also very financially draining, especially when the bills start piling up. But look at it this way: If there’s no food in the kitchen, you lose weight. If there’s no househelp, you get to exercise by cleaning.
It’s all about self-sufficiency and self-actualization. My other friend is right, too. Space is good. I love my parents more now because I miss them. I think I’ve become a better daughter. I’m tidier. I’m more able. It’s empowering, this setup. I call the shots. If I make a mistake, at least, I do it to myself alone. And only I can pick the pieces up. That doesn’t sound very enticing but it’s actually a lot of fun.
The musts are pretty basic. Work hard to earn enough to sustain the lifestyle. Lock the doors. Make sure everything is unplugged. And smile…not everyone gets the opportunity to be alone. Being home alone is not as bad as it seems.
And by the way, water flow in my apartment is great. I celebrated my 100th shower just a couple of days ago. I treated myself to a new bath agents set, too. I loved it!