September 16, 2006

Don't Call Me Tita

I was in Embassy last Friday.

You don’t have to tell me. I’m thirty-something and I’m married. I know it was bizarre of me to dare step into that infamous lair of wanton adolescence, where skimpy lingerie is considered a complete party ensemble and flowing alcohol is served to babies masquerading as adults. But it was the birthday night of a very dear friend AMV and I couldn’t refuse his fervent invitation to go barhopping after dinner.

I thus found myself squeezing my way through the gyrating labyrinth of barely-clad bodies around me, praying no daughter of mine would ever enter such a den of iniquity, and hoping against hope I wouldn’t see someone I knew who would have the audacity to call out to me: “Hi, Tita Irene!”

Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks as I hit something hard. I thought it was a wall because it felt so solid. When I turned around, I was astonished to see that it was a man. Nay, a GIANT. His muscular arm was a tree trunk; his incredibly thick neck could have been someone’s waist. Truly, such a superbly built creature would be powerful enough to smash the building and everyone in it to smithereens. Could he be a real-life superhero?

Within moments, I noticed the crowd around the mystifying behemoth I touched swell rapidly. Then, there was rhythmic chanting intensifying: “BA-TIS-TA! BA-TIS-TA! BA-TIS-TA!”

It turns out I had just brushed shoulders (or, more accurately, head to biceps) with
Big Dave Batista -- the 290 pound, 6 feet and 5 inches tall Filipino-Greek American professional wrestling god of Smackdown!

I immediately text-messaged my WWE-addicted brothers and their blood curdled deep green with envy. They said they wished to heaven they were there instead of me, their old gloating sister.

Club owner Tim Yap proudly announced the presence of the smiling colossus on the microphone and the throng of revelers went wild cheering and clapping. Batista stayed a while to pose for pictures and take in the scene.

Before long, I found myself loosening up, kidding around with my companions, enjoying my drink, and swaying to the pulsating house music.

Hence, it came to be that my first foray into Embassy proved to be quite the cool experience. I had a close encounter with a world-famous superstar wrestler. I had fun with friends. And, thank God, nobody called me Tita.


Lizza said...

Good lord, that must have been a surreal experience. Personally, I don't care much for WWE. But I can imagine that it must have been quite a shock to brush up against the real-life version of the X-Men's Colossus.

Barhopping is something I haven't done in a long time. Jeez, I feel old.

Irene Tuazon said...

Oh but you must try it, Lizza!

Just a couple of pointers to help you fit in immediately: (1) Don't wear anything that covers more than 1/4 of your body; (2) Practice jostling (hard!) so you will be able to move inch by inch around the club; and (3) Drink yourself silly until you believe you are a teenager again and have every darn right to be there!

You can always deal with the consequences when you wake up the next morning.

BwaHaHa! c",)