Nicai de Guzman's web floordrobe
Queen, courtesan, and patron of the arts
I nitpick on the accurate meaning of words and phrases too much, I think… But consider this…
I get angry when someone says “Don’t worry, you’ll find someone better.”
“Better” in the scheme of things, is an adjective used to describe someone or something that is of more value or worth.
And how can you compute someone’s value or worth? Not net worth like their income and assets, for chrissakes, but their totality as a person?
ANSWER: YOU CAN’T. How can you put a price on moments of laughter shared with that person? Or when he kissed your forehead and told you everything will be all right? Sure he probably became an asshole after the good part, but how can you put a value on someone, really? His education? His work? How he treats his family? If he comes from a Top 4 Uni, that’s plus five and if he doesn’t, that’s just plus one? Currently, there is no known equivalent or value to estimate these intangible and slightly philosophical things of/in/to a person.
So when someone says “You’ll find someone better,” I shout back, “Like if Boy X is worth 4 in life points and Boy Y is a 5 and Boy Z is a 6 and I’m with Boy X now but maybe I can meet Boy Y and Z?”
And they say it’s just a phrase. But I’m not that kind of person, so to be grammatically / philosophically correct about all this, why not say instead “You’ll find someone who treats you better?”
The operational term in the new phrase is “treat” and this is easier to compare, I suppose: someone who shows up on time VS someone who shows up late VS someone who doesn’t show up at all. Little things like that.
And about the problematic “better” in the new phrase, we cannot quantify this again but this time we can categorically mean, someone-who-won’t-hurt-you-the-way-he-did? Possible that it’s just a different way, but let’s remain optimistic.
Reading The Fault In Our Stars by John Green, which is the perfectly perfect reading material after the emergency room episodes the past month — the first being the infamous “Nicai hit a car” accident that almost sliced my foot in half (okay I kid, it sliced the skin cause it got caught in the plate number) and the second one being the “Nicai randomly collapsed in the middle of the office” which had me spend P450 for a pregnancy test I didn’t need.
The latter isn’t really random. I’ve collapsed twice in the past. The first one was in high school during leadership camp. It was the first time the school allowed its students to stay overnight. It was a historic event for Theresians everywhere and I was supposed to take part in it, only I collapsed in the afternoon and got sent home. They said it was just cramps ‘cause I had my period that time. The nurse gave me a hot compress and allowed me to sleep in the clinic until my grandparents picked me up.
The second time was in college. It was in Sociology class and I slid down my seat from too much pain. My professor panicked and called the ambulance and I was rushed out of the building on a stretcher.
So it has happened before, the hellish stomach cramps, and the doctors kept saying it was just dysmenorrhea or PMS cramps. When it happened this time, the doctors at the emergency room recommended I check with an OB. And the OB was reasonable enough to have me undergo an ultrasound (after the usual blood and urine tests — “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”) and finally, finally confirm that I have a freakin’ cyst in my right freakin’ ovary.
Finally, it had a name. I wasn’t really scared when I heard the result. I had it all along, anyway. I told some of my close friends and some of them said they knew this person and this person who had cysts in different parts of their reproductive system too.
Finally it had a name — a name for the reasons why I held myself back, fearing a collapse when I’m alone. Why I didn’t try for a scholarship at Cambridge or NYU when I had a chance. Why I didn’t move out of my parents’ house when I couldn’t stand them anymore. Why I didn’t sign up for that exchange student program in Japan, or wherever else. A name for my excuses, my general perception that I’m weak, why I hated being a woman.
Now it has a name and I know what I need to do with it.
Good news, I can still have babies.
Good news, it can be shrunk with medications.
Bad news, the medication I’m taking will make me fat.
Bad news, I wasn’t allowed to go to the gym the past three weeks ‘cause my foot’s been healing.
Good news, I go back to the gym on Thursday.
Good news, my boobs will get bigger again.
Bad news, if the medications don’t work, I may need to get an operation.
Good news, my parents have been giving me chocolates so I won’t get depressed or whatever about it.
Bad news, I don’t think the news has sunk in yet.
Good news, it’s not really deadly, from what I understood.
Good news, life goes on.
Good news, I finally know what I want to do with my life, knowing I can do anything I want once I’m cured.
Good news, I’ll be applying for MBA, if not next year, then the year after that.