You don't know my game

Some of the young people I work with probably think I’m the biggest humdrum and that I’ve always been like that even when I was their age. At times, I wonder if they went as far as imagining me knitting sweaters on weekends (FYI, I don’t know any needlework).

I remember how my jaws dropped when one asked me if I know the band The Cranberries when Dolores O'Riordan died two years ago, and the same person asking me recently if I know who Kobe Bryant was — as if both weren’t even from my time.

To some, older makes you dumber. They think you’re less smart and less competent compared to everyone else. They automatically assume that just because I know zilch about K-Dramas, who Billie Eilish is or what’s on Netflix, that I also don’t know many other things.

Bad Gut

I almost stayed in bed for the entire weekend. My back hurts like hell, felt queasy and disgustingly bloated. I’ve managed to go to the mall after lunch last Saturday thinking I could shake it off but went home after an hour as I wasn’t feeling any better.

The following morning is laundry day. Even if I wasn’t feeling well when I woke up, I dragged my butt; ate two slices of loaf and off I went carrying more than 10 kilos of dirty clothes. If I flake out and stay in bed, I’m pretty sure I’d only feel worse.

The rest of the day, however, was spent inside my room — indisposed.

I wish I knew what’s going on without having to go to the doctor (did you notice how most doctors let their patients wait for hours?). I don’t want to Google my symptoms either—as it will only give me the worst case of cyberchondria because if it isn’t cancer, it is some hard-to-pronounce illness enough to freak out the overthinker in me.

But yeah — I’m not feeling my best lately. It isn’t the flu or anything that I’d catch because of the season, but more of a general feeling of weakness and discomfort.

My main complaint is my gut. There’s seems to be some trouble brewing inside after every meal. It’s not an urge to do number two, just that feeling of heaviness. At first, I thought it’s just me PMS-ing, but now I suspect my intestines are sluggish or even blocked. It seems I can’t digest my food very well and it just stays right in my stomach as belly fat.

Oh, Chris.

(This is a Chris Evans appreciation post. If you don’t like him or you’re one of those who already got tired of my incessant gushing over the man—feel free to skip.)

There was never a time in my life that I haven’t been a fangirl. Whether it’s for an actor, a singer, a band or an athlete, I am not one to hide my feelings of admiration and devotion. For me, having someone to look up to for inspiration makes life interesting.

I have had so many celebrity crushes in the past; some rather embarrassing (James Van Der Beek during his Dawson Creek days was one). Some days I have more than one celebrity crush I could even make a list. Others were a passing fancy, while there are ones that took me years to get over.

There are many good-looking Hollywood actors, but back then I was into a different type. For a while, I like the types of Farrell and Fassbender who are rough-around-the-edges but absolutely hot in their own mysterious kind of way. Then when I somehow outgrew the bad-boy type, I got pretty much attracted to the older, more mature men like Colin Firth (which perhaps had more to do with the fact that I am an Anglophile).

For almost two years now, it’s Chris Evans. Only Chris Evans.