Life and love in a bubble

It has changed the way I look at life, and actually, it’s not so bad. Margie, my spouse and my North Star, looked at it and said, “What do we do, Monchet?” In our ’hood, we were the nexus of the virus, and just like that, felt like social pariahs. Unlike the rest of the tito and tita brigades, we did not hoard toilet paper. Margie instead cut back on my laxatives. We refused to buy gallons of alcohol; instead Mr. Boozy became a great friend throwing three sheets to the wind with Negronis that buzzed me, and smoked too many cigars to trigger my asthma.

God forbid, I was only allowed to venture as far as Säntis — that would be an elevator drop and 400-meter walk — to avoid the denizens of our now quiet ’hood. The mall was too much of a no-no for me, and Margie feared that I would be susceptible to anything that microbiologically moved. But, well, you can’t keep a Tito Mon from forging on.

Like everyone else, we adapted to this working-from-home bit, and learned the tricks of Zooming or whatever form of communication. Father Tito Caluag, Manila’s padre du jour, became my default. Waiting for his Masses was my solace — take that from someone who doesn’t go to church. But one cannot live on salami, Negroni and Father Tito alone.

As the lockdown eased three months in, and my liver felt it, I was able to isolate my bubbles. It was my workspaces, tested incessantly; I went to visit and see humans, beyond the denizens of the Rockwellians. This is what brought me creative joy and perhaps sparked a flailing sense of self-worth. Self-love was new to me. It took Lia Bernardo to explain it.

On a side note, this is going to be a tough holiday. I know all the guards by their names. They are my daily photogs, and I keep my daily fashion editorial on cue on my Instagram. Oh, I dressed daily, even for my Säntis jaunts. Ready for the ’gram. The ampaw is cheaper than having an “influencer” photog team following you till you pee, to show how wonderful the post-prandial fountain soap surreptitiously placed in the WC is.

What I did not do was bake sourdough bread or Basque cheesecake; nor did I aburi, or become Chef Boyardee. All this was all-too-similar to our early San Francisco years. What I did find rewarding was doing things that I took for granted. It was just Margie and I and our Frenchie who recently passed. I went back to “raid the larder” cooking (my parents refused to send me to cooking school), doing the laundry, the dishes, ironing and sweeping. I turned from Señor Don Jose Ramon Olives–Diokno (or, in my previous incarnation, The Grumpy MDO), and became Tito Mon, the all-around solution finder. The señorito seemed to have been a victim of the “veerus.” Don’t get me wrong, that was not of my volition… it was Margie’s voice kept on saying, “Huy!” But I enjoyed it.

For those that didn’t know, Margie and I separated for five years when I was in search of myself. After my stroke, and a series of unfortunate events, she took me back, God bless her, and together we began our journey of reacquainting ourselves with what we loved about each other.

So, while some of my friends got off on quarantinis and complaining about the universe, I merrily enjoyed the idea of not having to attend the beso-beso brigade. I was comfortable knowing that getting trapped in this bubble was the best thing to happen to us both.

For someone like me that has trekked Tiger’s Nest in Bhutan, lived through minus-40-degree sleigh rides in Ulaan Bataar, Mongolia, and bungee-jumped from the Macao Tower, the thought of an unseen danger beckoned. But you see, the unseen danger isn’t that accursed veerus — it is really ourselves.

As for me, my hubris slowly turned to humility. And it came with a lot of learning, as I have never been actually happier. I don’t mean ill to those that continue to sneak slowly back into real life, because, well, it’s natural; but what I suggest is that we consider what all this has taught us.

First, materialism is so très déclassé. Who needs another pair of effing shoes? Or a coat? Or a back? What I did when Uniqlo opened is I chucked my old undies and bought five pairs, and that’s it. I found a reseller for shoes and bags and sold them slowly. Cash is king. And when, for God’s sake, will I again need to wear the peacock version of me? Vintage is so now; minimalist — from lounge to Mercury — is the new “it” dressing.

Second, dramatic as it may seem, and not very Monchet, I found my faith. (It’s Father Tito’s fault, hahaha, I watch him daily, I do my rosary and I pray for everyone.)

Thirdly, Margie and I are getting along. She overheard me talking to my therapist, to whom I said, “Margie has been extremely kind to me,” to which she replied, “Because you are kind, Monchet, the toxicity around you allowed you to be sucked into it.”

Fourthly, exercise as much as you can. When lockdown hit, I enrolled in Saddle Row’s Zoom sessions and I never felt better. I do miss my workout at our CrossFit place Central Ground, but the four to five times a week 45-minute rows keep me going and getting fit. It reminds me of my being on the water those years I competed. I feel stronger, and honestly, the Zen moments coupled with happy endorphins seem to fit the bill. And yes, I apparently lost weight.

I contemplate a lot, my inner empath seeming to give off a spark; and finally, I feel more things. Little things excite me, really: fresh espasol that I would scoff at now merits an “Oh, my God…” (Driving home a point, okay?) I would escape in the previous life to a bar for a drink (I still do). But come one…. I still do, but does a mano count? (Oh. I can’t leave Rockwell, which isn’t a bad thing.) And there is the value of day drinking… and curfew.

So, beneath a veneer shrouded in a ratty Barbour jacket, a scarf and some floppy hat, I am blessed to have an adoring wife (oh, she can be a brat, mind you), and the joy of long conversations just like being newly married. We pray every evening for many of our family and friends who have been taken by the pandemic, and as much as we can, help out those people close to our hearts struck by the damage of the typhoons. We dearly miss our Bambina, who has been with us for 16 years. And her loss saddens me immensely.

But life, as the cliché has it, goes on. There is nothing as heartwarming as a sunset, knowing cheesily (raclette preferred) that tomorrow there will be another.

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