Growing Up

Growing up was a hectic because I couldn’t grow more than 167 centimeters. There’s a minus point, as I’m the recognizable One in a group who stands tall with puberty on face and has kicked the ball hard or teased a local beauty. After a while, boys dumped me and girls never accepted my tender frame as something manly. Nonchalantly, I decided to grow up all by myself.

Expertise in mimicking (I must add that to my resume) I devised 1000 different ways to ogle, stare, ape, and mimicry. I’m so good at these arts that I turn to cynic. Well, I must correct myself—I’m too perfectionist to the degree that I could teach my pet dog the best way to wag a tail. (It’s another story that I never had a pet. My mother can’t afford to manage two at a time). Closed doors, mushy cushions, a pair of scissors, my sister’s secret scrapbook, and adult covers hidden under pile of stocky files in father’s chestnut drawer are the only witnesses of how many games I cultivate. (Sigh! They don’t speak but goodness gracious, what if they do…)

I told ya’ growing up was a pain.