Lani’s gone away, and oh, the difference to me.
But the countdown has begun. In less than a week, my kasambahay will be back from her yearly vacation, and I feel expectant, but also somewhat regretful: My back, not to mention other parts of my rickety anatomy, feels close to giving—why at all did I agree to allow her a third, an extra week! Still, like a landlady whose collection shall soon be due, I’m eyeing the calendar with hope.
Even the lightest of housework no longer feels light at all. Washing my lingerie and the dishes left by us orphaned couple takes its predictable first casualty. In spite of religious and lavish application of hand lotion after I towel-dry my hands, my landlady nails still crack or split from being soaked in detergent. Not even the vaunted varieties that contain aloe vera or green tea or some other natural ingredient or all three seem to work.
But it’s the bending, the carrying, the real chores that break you. I know. I have actually cleaned our unit twice—well, only in the pakitang-tao fashion. I wiped here and there without lifting one volume on the bookshelves and without thinking at all of moving one piece of furniture—good God!
I’ve since left even that, along with the serious lifting and cleaning, to my granddaughter’s yaya, whose ward, Mona, we are only too happy to look after while she does her new weekend assignments. Additionally she changes the linens. The driver, for his part, takes out the trash daily, and every Wednesday, when we get our discount, takes our wash to the laundry service on the ground floor of our condominium.
Out of the way
If you’re wondering where Vergel is in all this, he’s exactly where I want him to be—out of the way. When he’s not writing or editing, he’s strumming his guitar or playing soothing CD or DVD music, lest any signs of self-pity arise. He’s my rock, whose strength I reserve for the hard stuff in life, not to be squandered on domestic chores. Besides, to this day, I’ve wisely not given him a familiarization tour, for instance, of the kitchen, its cabinets and drawers and their contents. I have not, in other words, given him any chance to mess up. I like it that he has no clue where the towels are; that’s why I put up with all his calling out for service.
He is, however, the master of his own clothes closet. Unlike me, he knows at any given time exactly how many shirts, socks and underwear he has. Unlike him, I still get surprises going through my own closets, rediscovering things that, until the recent rediscovery must have been, like Little Boy Blue toys, wondering whatever happened to me, their own Little Boy Blue, “since I kissed them and put them there.”
Physically I’m lazy, and happily so. Next to reading, I love doing nothing, because that’s when I’m free to retreat into my mind. Idle moments are golden moments for me, moments for thinking, imagining, planning—planning, that is, for a better, simpler, happier life. Bathroom time I also treasure for my own brand of solo leisure—reading the papers and doing the crossword and Sudoku puzzles.
Indeed I’ve discovered that laziness is the mother of innovation and improvisation, when ideas take birth, for instance, on precisely how to make life easier under my present situation, sans Lani. Instead of taking out a glass for each of the eight times water is consumed per day, I’ve come up with a “his” and “hers” glass for the whole day, saving me all the washing. Also, since I don’t like washing trapo, I use paper towels instead—a whole lot of them—moistened with the prescribed cleaning solutions for glass tops, countertops, furniture, and even the floor. The idea, of course, is to save energy—mine—never mind, for the time being, paper towels.
To avoid kitchen mess and chores, we eat out even oftener than we normally do. There’s adobo and bacalao a la Vizcaina in the freezer, precooked for emergencies, but there has arisen no emergency yet that could stop us from walking out to eat or inspire us to exert the effort of defrosting it and eating in.
Continental
Breakfast is a breeze: We keep it Continental—croissant, butter, fruit preserves or brown raisin bread and cream cheese. Once in while, we have hot sardines, served with pickled Jalapeños, and crispy baguettes. We eat lots of fruits, but, for our own health, don’t mind the effort and ceremony that attend their consumption. Their seeds and peelings go into a biodegradable trash bag for the driver to dispose off on his way home. For now it also suits us to believe too much coffee isn’t good for us, so two demitasses a day is the limit. Besides, along with me, the French press could use a rest.
Being without Lani, though, can be good for me in some ways. Walking myself to the bank, I find that some managers I knew have been reshuffled off to other branches and I’m just in time to meet their replacements. I’m also forced to organize my day and try to remember everything that falls due and needs to be done—bills, dues, etc. I’m also forced to keep tabs on my medicines without Lani’s alerts—cranberry tablets, calcium, fish oil (we stopped our Lipitor, but that’s another story). That alone somehow feels self-empowering and gives me a sense of accomplishment and independence.
But, definitely most appreciated in her absence, Lani can have all that independence back as soon as she darkens our door.
