I’m dreaming of a life that glitters
Like any other girl who grew up in the 2000s watching romantic comedies and splurging her limited allowance on monthly issues of Total Girl and Candy magazine, I dreamt of a life that glitters. The one where you cross the walkable streets of The City in a hurry as you break in three-inch heels, writing who’s who and where’s where wherever you go, events jotted down on burgundy Filofax planners like 27 Dresses’ Jane Nichols, only instead of backflipping between multicultural (and multicolored) weddings, you would attend press cons, relish in the glitz and glamour, receive pink glittered goodie bags with a smile, and take home the guest list with your name on it. Printed proof that you belong, 100% —that you’re fabulously in.
And like any other girl who went to a religious small-town high school, I got rooted back to earth and realized that “fabulous” is a steep (price) hike. Expensive. Exclusive. The works. Not in the way a Zara dress is P7,000, nor the way a private dinner comes with overpriced and endless Xiao Long Baos, but in the way you are aware of how many work weeks it will take for you to afford it. The proverbial manacle telling me not to bother. So I didn’t. I went about the rest of my days, buying materials from local school supply stores run by well-meaning Manangs and delivering essay commissions for P300. Collected, responsible, practical.
The magical thing about it, however, is that I found dreams have a way of seeping through.
My first “official” gig as a working student was doing customer service for online stores. I was about 16 to 17 years old. They carried merchandise from a band I was (and still am) obsessed with and paid P500 per month (obscenely low, by the way!). It wasn’t much, but I liked the fact that there was something I personally loved within the confines of frustrated fans asking for updates and refunds. That, despite how dreary the days were, there was something to marvel at. The giddiness every once in a while made it bearable.
The kindest thing I have ever done for myself thus far is to believe that I am capable of my dreams — despite, despite, despite.
Over the years, this was how I pulled through from one job to another. While I was working minimum wage on multiple gigs and pouring most of it into rent and groceries, I would source out micro-opportunities in the industries I have an interest in. I would do any errand to get a taste of, as Addison Rae puts it, the glamorous life. Picking up the shoot’s HMUA? Sign me up! Run out to buy event snacks and get a coffee frother from Daiso? Would love to! Work reception and potentially be creeped out by a couple of customers? I’ll be there! Answer phones with a sing-songy voice to represent the company? I’m your girl! Anything to give me that rush of excitement, that feeling of being within your dreams.
Scarfing down budget meals after research consultations, I designed posters for a music label that housed artists I loved. I edited videos for a coffee shop that sold the best chocolate-chip cookies and was overjoyed when they would give me some to take home. I covered entertainment news, wrote documentation, and hosted social events. I assisted in high-end shoots I could never afford and met people I looked up to, and a few became good friends with.
I reasoned that while work is sustenance and one must keep their eye on the prize of graduating and stability, it didn’t hurt to go off-grid and search for something with a tinge of that sweetness, a taste of that dream. A little delusion. Submitting posters as if they’re going somewhere other than a startup’s Instagram page. Editing reels and TikToks as if every video will be The Viral Moment of the month. And, like Lara Jean of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, collecting analog souvenirs and anything with my name on it to remind me of the things I made possible. Despite, despite, despite.
These side quests (the new gaming-based Gen-Z term for hobbies and side hustles) kept me from flickering out. In the sea of bills and the weeks of petsa-de-peligro, I had something fun, exciting, fabulous; on-the-go in the streets of Makati City with a stacked calendar. In the pockets of time between working numerous jobs and attending electives for my degree, I had something to look forward to, no matter how small. Never mind that some of them only lasted a day and I was back to being Cinderella on the Angkas on the way home to get three hours of sleep. It was still there, proof of trying, still images of the life my younger self had envisioned for her future. In my head, it had to exist someday, so I have to make it exist today—no matter how brief.
There was once a lovely girl who passed by the bookshop I worked for during the better part of my undergrad years, who talked about this dilemma with me. She was off to start her master’s in Paris, if memory serves correctly; a huge life shift. I’ve met a lot of people in the space going through something similar: a new job, a resignation, a long-awaited graduation, a master’s enrollment, an opportunity that will take them far away, a new hobby, a new city, new friends, first dates, a chance for them to go home, a step towards their dreams, or a way back to something they lost. In the noise, it had become a transitory place for many. Ours, too. That’s what the girl and I agreed on: Life is long. We do what we have to do, and we can always be excited again. There will always be something new. She was set to fly to Europe that weekend and I was set to commute back to Manila to continue working on my thesis. Having shared that moment of understanding, we wished each other the best.
I hope she is doing well, that she is having fun and chasing the dreams she told me about with such light in her eyes.
As for me, my life is no Andie Anderson or Carrie Bradshaw just yet. There are few solo apartments in the city that I can afford, I only possess three pairs of shoes, and I sometimes still ration my food and re-wear clothes to make it through the week. But I learned not to be so intimidated by it. It is okay if my dreams are for now merely tucked in the pockets of black slacks and worn-out work bags. It is not a dramatic failure. I can just do what I have to do. It might not be glitz-and-glamour 24/7, and the fast-food take-out paper bags might not be pink-glittered goodie bags just yet. Still, I will savor every moment, go the distance, drink up every book and magazine article that comes my way, and try to have as much fun as I can doing it.
