Breakdown, breakthrough

In one of those odd occasions that I was late for a dinner with my friend Tim somewhere in Ortigas (usually I’m licking the last of my crème brûlée while he orders his appetizers), he sat down looking uncharacteristically sullen.

"I don’t know but it’s like he was, like, pretending he wanted to chat and ask how I was and crap like that. When all the while he was selling this idea to me for a PR project," he said huffily of a guy we both knew who worked for some energy drink brand.

"I don’t know he seemed ok to me," I said, trying to study Tim’s rather pissed off but still poised face. I carefully asked, "Are you ok? Am I smelling a burnout here?"

Tim has been working like an animal, running his club Embassy, working on his TV show, squeezing in hosting jobs in between thousands of shoots and editing his section. Plus learning French for reasons I will just enjoy figuring out.

"No way!" he exclaimed at first, then reclined back in the chair and looked at me almost doubtfully "You think?"

I felt sorry for my overworked sweetheart, looking fresh yet exasperated with his carefully styled blond crop and red shirt that said www.overdose.coma.com.

"Well, I honestly thought he was just being nice, of course, inserting a thing or two about his project may have been a bummer at midnight – Yes, dinner for us meant the witching hour – but I would not put anything past it. Relax," I continued in a studied soothing voice "I mean when I’m in these little dreaded events that I have to go to, I hardly enjoy myself. I feel like everyone is nice to me in my face, then when I turn around, they all just laugh at me. Making fun of me, my outfit, my work, my friends."

Tim gave me this blank look. "You’re calling me burnt out! Look at you, you’re freaking Mariah Carey!"

I was glad to amuse him as he was falling over himself with laughter with my Judy Garland moment. Maybe I was giving him advice that I should seek myself. How could I not be paranoid at this point? Backstabbing has become a common game adults play. Everyone does it it’s like social herpes except it never goes away.

There are outbreaks here and there. Those blogs that I have long discovered, certain people I know clawing me in the back, some of those I’ve supported with publicity (I know who you all are!) and simply buying their stuff. Still being a lady, despite my antics, I’m still never rude and give out a pursed smile and an almost arthritic kiss. Despite what others think, I air kiss those I really like. There’s a certain comfort of being a pretentious bitch to people you really like and trust. Things like this, I guess, can get to you, even if at the end of the day, you go to bed and not even think a blink about them.

Maybe I was getting burnt out with the whole sandbox politics of the fragile egos of the fashion republic. And the sad part was I’m not even rich or famous. Just crazy, which without the two is hardly intriguing. I love my job, but part of the package is hobnobbing, which I enjoyed in my more naive days and now approach with reluctant caution.

Unlike him, I’m not also quite as personable. Tim remembers everyone, while I still call my new dog Bruno Herkie (my dead dog). I’m really shy despite what everyone thinks. Some insecurity I still harbor from being a skinny stick in high school. I also don’t have the gift of remembering faces and names. I’m always faced with embarrassing moments where I’m caught in the 100-thread (or rather dread) count blanket of ignorance as I breeze through someone I’ve already met. I’ve been called a snob as many times as I’ve been called vapid. I’d rather be called vapid any day over snob. I mean I can’t remember what I had for lunch the day before. I have not finished a novel in six months. I have ADD, I know it, and I need Ritalin to save me from this mess.

So, I overcompensate by kissing people I don’t know and who don’t know me either at events just so I’m not called a snob. I end up looking like a social climber instead. Which is actually quite lovable if executed the right way. I end up getting weird looks, and I realize I’ve come to the event too late and, in typical third world-style, the bar has run dry. I’ve seen pictures of myself from certain parties that I have a sour Datung Puti look in my face that I’m not enjoying myself at all.

I’ve actually stopped going to all these functions unless I really have to, or if it’s done by a dear friend. It’s too stressful. I’ve lost the gift of small talk. I was once chatting with a designer and I kept rattling on how The Women, that Joan Crawford movie, was the best fashion movie ever. I was babbling for five minutes or longer and I only noticed then the guy I was talking to was yawning. I felt like Howard Hughes in The Aviator, that moment he started going batty. I thought to myself that this event better have a fun goody bag.

One thing I’ve always admired about my mother was how she could always be so damn diplomatic. She charms people to their knees. I make them yawn or revel in my jittery weirdness. I’m rather sweet when drunk, but it can’t be like that all the time. Left to my own defenses, I hide behind my friend Wendy who could really care less about predators. I’ve actually now learned some social graces since I’ve come out of the forest along with those Japanese soldiers. I’ve learned to say "Thank you" when complemented. I’ve learned to pose like a starlet in front of cameras instead of looking like Napoleon Dynamite. I’ve learned to keep conversations to "Hello" when I really don’t have much to say. I’ve learned to just shut up and look fabulous while on screensaver mode. I’ve learned that the back row is the best seat in the house because front row is obnoxious and for people who just want to feel cool, and you can’t play Nokia games while the emcees exchange scientific banter.

The funny thing is I’m more comfortable in my skin more than ever. And that’s what makes this whole deal harder to swallow. I’ve lost the ability to bullshit, something I was so lovely at a couple of years ago.

A couple of months back a friend invited for drinks at some hotel in Hong Kong. I followed after a bank-breaking spree at IFC. He introduced me to his friend Michelle, Denise and Gordon.

I sat next to Michelle and started chatting about my shopping trip and useless crap. I asked Michelle where she lived, and she said "Hong Kong and mostly on a plane." I immediately pictured her as one of those rare hot stewardesses that drove Porches. I saw the looks around me that had this glare of "Don’t do it." I ignored them and asked her what she did for a living. She said she was in the entertainment industry. I just nodded understanding the connection since my friend Brian was in the entertainment industry, too. She stood and said good bye since she had a meeting. I kept thinking to myself, "What a nice girl," and very fight, too, noticing her Vivienne Westwood military jacket. They then proceeded to whack me in the head,

"That’s Michelle Yeoh, you dummy!"

Gosh really? I thought to myself.

I saw her again the following night and she laughed about my obliviousness. Tanked and charming I already was, I just quipped "I’m used to being the only star."

She laughed and probably thought I was insane. But then maybe that’s what we should always feel when you feel small. Famous or not, delude yourself that you are indeed a rock star that the world can’t live without. It’s in this delusion that may save you from certain mental death.