Mr. Stravel's Blush

Dear Diary,

In the tradition of Anne Frank’s most celebrated personal journal, I have decided to give you a name. I shall call you, um, uh, Guilliver…Gulliver Stravel. Perhaps this calls for another salutation.

Dear Gulliver Stravel,

You won’t be able to guess what happened to me today. Of course, I was still up to my morning routine: part from my magnetic bed, take a bath, get myself almost dressed, get back to sleep, part from my magnetic bed (again), get fully dressed, revisit "john" for last minute toxic riddance, and ride a jeepney to work. You may notice that today, I skipped breakfast. I slept late last night so I used more time sleeping leaving me no time to eat. But apart from those, other interesting things happened.

As soon as I arrived in the office, I felt the urge to wash my thermo mug and my porcelain cup. It’s been a long time since I’ve washed them so I imagined every molecule that composed them rejoicing. Then, before leaving the ladies room, I relieved myself in one of its cubicles. To my surprise, I discovered that my fly was open even before I unzipped it. It meant that I have been walking around with unzipped pants. I swiped in to work oblivious to the fact that my undergarments are almost waving, “hello” to everyone coming my way. I think I blushed for a while—the natural kind of blush brought about by embarrassment.

Halfway through the day another faux pas occurred. My left shoe ripped open. I had not even foreseen it. I mean, I’m no seer but I am the type who regularly monitors her belongings. I should have at least predicted my shoe’s impending ruin. And just yesterday, I was admiring my them. I wore them during my graduation last year. I’ve grown fond of them because for the first time, I have acquired a pair of graduation shoes which turned into an everyday pair shoes. You see, my past graduation shoes were limited to their title for I seldom wore them after my commencement exercises. They were either too pretty for me to wear or too much of a torment for my unladylike feet. It saddens me to face my now smiling left shoe. When I look at it now, it doesn’t appear to be smiling anymore. It resembles more that of a mouth about to devour a Big Mac. Yes, Gulliver, it’s that bad. I had to wear a pair of indoor slippers on my way home.

I prayed really hard that it won’t rain and that there will be a jeepney available for me to hop on when the clock struck 6 PM but my request for divine intervention was to no avail. The incessant rain made waiting for the rare jeepney excruciating. Finally when the most awaited mode of transportation took form in front of me, I found myself no space to plant my tush. Fortunately, some of my officemates who have successfully lodged their buns on the jeepney’s seats offered their laps for me to sit on. Although I knew that me sitting on them may inflict permanent damages on their rectus femoris—otherwise known as thigh muscles—I accepted their offer as I had no plans of waiting for another ride which might take, I don’t know, eternity maybe. It wasn’t long before a nice man got a clue and gave his seat up for me. God bless that man!

And so, dear Guilliver, I’m now back inside my room where my day started. I’m bare foot, wearing an old shirt with ripped seams and hems. But this time I’m no longer blushing because, although my present outfit stays faithful my day’s theme, I no longer feel exposed. How will I be? I’m talking to a diary I never had with a name resembling the title of an English satire by some guy who, I hope, is capable of giving up his seat for a poor girl in slippers—and my butt is comfortably mounted on a posture chair for just for me.

Yours,

Lily Foot