I’ve been debating with myself on whether I should blog about my recent discovery. The feeling is similar to when I first discovered the coolest beach in Puerto Galera, located on its secret quiet side, away from the throngs of boats and people on White Beach. I decided to reveal the location of said beach only to a handful of trusted friends, whom I know are too busy anyway to go back to my coolest beach ever with their other friends. The goal is to not spoil a good thing with the presence of “others.”
I’m making a similar exception this time. Friends, I’ve been jog-walking the track at the Philippine Sports Commission for two weeks now, and I recommend that you visit it too sometime.
You know that as a self-confessed nerd, I generally dislike participating in any physical activity. The only exams I dreaded taking in grade school were those that involved successfully hitting a volleyball across a stupid sagging net 7 of 10 times. In fact, one of the reasons I married Pao is because someone’s going to have to carry the sports genes in the family and that someone most certainly will not be me.
In fairness to myself, I did try my hand at the gym when the membership came free with my former employment. Welcome to Boresville. I then tried my hand at badminton, partly because it’s a sport with manageable skill requirements, mostly because I feel my career rises/plummets in direct proportion to my ability to hit a shuttle cock. But alas, a natural lampa like me cannot expect to shine in competitive sports.
In contrast to my other two "undertakings," I feel running around the PSC track oval while listening to Itchyworms isn’t even a sport. It’s my daily happy Gladi time because: (1) I get to watch hunky bronze-colored pogis practicing football at the center of the oval; (2) I get to watch hunky bronze-colored athletes in Nike track suits running around the oval; and (3) I get to watch more hunky bronze-colored athletes in Nike track suits stretching at the side lines. I cannot, at this moment, think of a better past time.
The place admittedly has its downside. The changing rooms are doorless and deplorable. On some days, the football team of a certain all-girls’ school in Ortigas practices in the soccer field, during which you are likely to overhear an “Ohmygod, where’s my drivherrrrr?!” or an “Ohmygod, yaya, can you hand me my bag phleasze?!”. My advise during such trying times is to just tune them out. Remember, good-looking athletes, majority of whom are likely straight, beat whiny teenagers. All the time.