Memoirs of an Amnesiac

I'd like to speak in behalf of the Eve populace (if I may be so frank and blunt about this) that the single most baffling thing about us is this option paralysis: given a host of alternatives, we are most likely unable to take one--especially when we are faced with the dilemma on what to wear each time we go out.

My guilt devours me each time as when a date texts that he is already in the tryst that we had agreed on while I was still caught up in my wardrobe, totally bemused about what looks good with which and whether or not it would fit the occasion. Times there were that I would plan ahead the clothes I would wear just so I wouldn't be caught up in the "shopping hype." You know that feeling when you see all those glamorous clothes. You choose three and then the tedious process of deciding which one to buy from the three (because you can't afford them at once) begins and ends when you eventually and (helplessly) asks for the salesgirl's help (whose advice you later realize wasn't sound but you took it anyway because your mind was clouded with the option paralysis). Then you go home and realize how much grateful you are to the salesgirl for the item was like no other in your own wardrobe! (Besides, why would you even buy clothes of the same make and kind? Duh!)

You actually try to prevent getting that option paralysis (believing in your own naive heart that prevention is still better than cure) by buying a lot of clothes just so you wouldn't run out of clothes to wear but then again, you all the more contribute to the problem. So you try another alternative: you start scouting those clothes that you think would still be in vogue (even when your favorite movie actress has finally worn Monique Lhuillier's collections over your own taste).

But then in the guise of actually helping yourself out, you eventually stumble along the memory lane for surely some old clothes will evoke reminiscences about the past--that old spaghetti sauce stain when you were so fidgety and jittery on your first date, that hole on your pants borne out of your jumping off a barbed-wire fence because you wanted to get some fruits from the neighbor's fruit trees but was unlucky enough to have been caught and chased by his ever ferocious dogs, those iron line marks caused by your getting angry at somebody who never seemed to understand your side and so you burn a hefty portion of that satin dress in your anger, that blouse which button has left its sad hole never to return again when it was mercilessly severed due to the owner's frantic running for that matinee idol, and that dress, that very same dress you wore when you inevitably lost somebody dear to you.

Like the immortal gaps in your mind, you want to keep them, as forever keepsakes of times past, memorabilia of moments that are ephemeral yet enlightening, tough and tender yet sweet all together combined.

And while you're too engrossed in your musings and disjointed images assail your eyeballs, you suddenly wake up with a jolt as when that date texts, "Where are you now? I'm already here."

You actually intended to arrive on time (not earlier, to disguise your utter excitement over being taken out on a date) but you obviously can't anymore. So, you reply with, "Wait. I'm almost there."

Yeah right.