The Grinch and I are somewhat kindred spirits: we were both found in a dump. That is, I was according to my older siblings who are not exactly the most reliable sources in the world when it comes to my origin as a member of the family. Add the fact that the dump is not the only place where I had supposedly come from. Included in the list are the carabao’s mud pit, the house fence where I was “hung by my real parents”, the bamboo grove, and that I came with a newly-ordered Tupperware container. Such is the peril of being the youngest in our family.
I had found the Grinch while I was rummaging through a dusty heap of books and clothes at a flea market. I had lifted off a thick fur coat (God only knows how one can wear a thing like that here in the tropics) from the pile and there he was, grinning like an imp with that sneaky sideways glance of his, in his entire green and red splendor as if he doesn’t care if someone picks him up, unlike those obese teddy bears pushing their swollen tummies forward in an effort to look more visible to prospective buyers. How can I not fall in love?
I bought him (with love being sold at a bargain price of Php35, it is indeed a wonderful world), brought him home, and washed the many weeks’ worth of dust and dirt off until it seemed to me that, in his cleaner state, his smile grew wider and his eyes brighter and sneakier.
I have never really been fond of stuffed toys. Even when I was a kid, I seldom sleep with one arm curved around a soft furry object. I have always preferred pillows and, when I got older and the hormones started kicking in, the living breathing being of a lover’s body. The Grinch was the only exception, maybe because whenever I cuddle him up the pain of an emerging wisdom tooth lessens, fevers seem to go down a little, melancholia is easier to bear, and the bastards that come and go in my life just become somebody to be laughed at.
The fat-bottomed Grinch is an antithesis to the banal cuteness so often favored by the typical stuffed toy club. He won’t probably be the perfect example of those as-cute-and-as-cuddly-as- you or reminds-me-of-you gifts that guys often give to their girlfriends on Valentine’s Day (imagine the possible effects on the poor girl’s self-esteem). He is in a league that is his own, one which could take a lot of people some time to appreciate. At least in the future one thing’s for sure: after all that’s said and done, he won’t be on that top shelf huddled and gathering dust along with the clique of the former cute toys who are now torn at the seams and have lost their eyes and mouths and glory. He will still be sitting within my reach, smiling that same wide smile, perhaps inwardly laughing at one of my clumsy moves, or silently persuading me to stop dating that loser. Maybe someday I will find someone like him. Someone with a lower waist-to-hip ratio, of course, and a little less green.
I had found the Grinch while I was rummaging through a dusty heap of books and clothes at a flea market. I had lifted off a thick fur coat (God only knows how one can wear a thing like that here in the tropics) from the pile and there he was, grinning like an imp with that sneaky sideways glance of his, in his entire green and red splendor as if he doesn’t care if someone picks him up, unlike those obese teddy bears pushing their swollen tummies forward in an effort to look more visible to prospective buyers. How can I not fall in love?
I bought him (with love being sold at a bargain price of Php35, it is indeed a wonderful world), brought him home, and washed the many weeks’ worth of dust and dirt off until it seemed to me that, in his cleaner state, his smile grew wider and his eyes brighter and sneakier.
I have never really been fond of stuffed toys. Even when I was a kid, I seldom sleep with one arm curved around a soft furry object. I have always preferred pillows and, when I got older and the hormones started kicking in, the living breathing being of a lover’s body. The Grinch was the only exception, maybe because whenever I cuddle him up the pain of an emerging wisdom tooth lessens, fevers seem to go down a little, melancholia is easier to bear, and the bastards that come and go in my life just become somebody to be laughed at.
The fat-bottomed Grinch is an antithesis to the banal cuteness so often favored by the typical stuffed toy club. He won’t probably be the perfect example of those as-cute-and-as-cuddly-as- you or reminds-me-of-you gifts that guys often give to their girlfriends on Valentine’s Day (imagine the possible effects on the poor girl’s self-esteem). He is in a league that is his own, one which could take a lot of people some time to appreciate. At least in the future one thing’s for sure: after all that’s said and done, he won’t be on that top shelf huddled and gathering dust along with the clique of the former cute toys who are now torn at the seams and have lost their eyes and mouths and glory. He will still be sitting within my reach, smiling that same wide smile, perhaps inwardly laughing at one of my clumsy moves, or silently persuading me to stop dating that loser. Maybe someday I will find someone like him. Someone with a lower waist-to-hip ratio, of course, and a little less green.
2 comments:
yeah..i know. i can see the similarities. you want to know the truth? a bird came over one night at the house with a cloth hanging from its beak - a baby bundle that was you - and we thought it was a stork,but turned out it was a pterodactyl. yes. you came from a pterodactyl, neanderthal baby.
..ahahahaha, straight out of the cave..:-p
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