I've Got Mail

My parents and their friends were playing mah jong one night, so I had to retire to my room early. Since I only had a few more pages of Amy Tan's The Bonesetter's Daughter, I was through in a jiffy. I went to my brother's room (I used to share rooms with him, so some of my stuff's still there) in search of a book to reread. Instead, I found myself opening the dresser drawer and lo and behold! Stacks of letters saved from high school! I emptied the drawer of its contents, sought the privacy of my room, and was immediately consumed by a nostalgic air.

I once proclaimed myself to be the worst correspondent ever. I got relatives living and working abroad but I don't recall having written them letters. I might have sent them cards on occasions. But the letters I found in the drawer - from friends and relatives - is evidence that I was once a very diligent letter writer, at least to my high school friends. I would not have gotten so many missives if I had not written back. Why did the communication end? Who stopped writing to whom?

I recall that I was pretty excited when I received mails from those I left behind in the province; I couldn't wait to write back. I guess my excitement just waned, and the hassle of having to go to the post office added to the decline. While I was going through each letter, I regretted not having continued the communication, or opened it on my end if it had been their side who stopped. Even with the advent of email, there was silence on both our ends. Sure, I receive emails from friends, college and law school; a few from high school. But 'communication' has gone down to emails forwarded from whoever to whoever and which just happened to land in your inbox if you managed to be in somebody's contacts. One may argue that at least messages are being forwarded to me. Thank goodness for small blessings! Yeah, I meant that sarcastically.

There's still something different and profound in receiving a note written in longhand and mailed the good old-fashioned way; as if a lot of thought is put into the letter, into you as recipient.

I want to share a letter from a college friend. I don't remember the exact reason why she wrote me this note though. I might have whined to her about this guy I really liked who, unfortunately for him, did not like me back. Anyway, the letter:

My mother likes to tell me that a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science means very little when facing the real world. Much as I'd like to disagree with her (after all, who wants to hear that four years of frying in the fires of the UP academe amounts to nothing?), I have to admit that at the end of the day, she is right.

For example: One of the things UP never taught us was how to fall in love safely. Safe sex is easy and cheap, to be bought for the price of a condom or a packet of pills. But safe love is an anomaly, an oxymoron. There is no such things as a risk-less love; and even if there were, I'm pretty sure they didn't tell us about it while we were studying Rousseau and the Social Contract.

There are certain things we'd like to believe about love: That there is one person designed especially for us, that we will know beyond all doubt when we meet that person, and that all our troubles will melt away like ice on a hot Philippine summer day when we fall in love. We like to believe in bells ringing when we kiss, in theme songs, in moonlight romances and deep voices crooning everlasting love to the mellow strumming of a guitar.

But one thing UP taught us was how to be practical, and how to face reality. And this is reality:

There are no soul mates, no white knights, and no ideal men. There are no ringing bells, no perfectly-fulfilled fantasies, and no escape routes via the love boat. There is no man who will ever be able to live up to your ideal. No one man can be all you hope and dream of, all you want and need.

But there are men who are willing to try. These are the men you are looking for.

You are a beautiful friend, inside and out. In and of yourself, you are complete, and need look no longer for your 'other half'. There is no other half, only you, and you are sufficient. This is what the man who loves you will have to learn and admire about you.

Enjoy your single life to the fullest. Life as another person's 'significant other' will come soon enough.