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When I was a kid, I used to have these recurring dreams where I’d go surfing under cloudless blue skies. I have never gone surfing as a child, nor was I particularly keen about learning how to, but in my dreams I’d feel as though I were one with the waves carrying me gently to the beach. Some ten odd years later, I found myself marveling at the sport’s deceptive simplicity as I alternated between paddling out to sea and clutching at the sides of a surfboard, the sea churning underneath my belly like a hyperacidic stomach.

Last weekend was spent catching some early summer sun at La Union with the boyfriend, Helga, Peter, Jen, and three of Jen’s friends. In between sips of pina colada, naps under the sun, and the kind of kilig moments only beaches can induce, I toyed with the idea of trying out surfing for the first time. There’s no arguing that it looks like a lot of fun, but I know myself well and my self cannot stand very long on a moving object. I also had doubts about my learning curve and the ability of my smoker’s lungs to carry me against the current. Helga claims to have gone surfing on the first morning, but because she has no picture proof I’m inclined to take her story with a grain of salt. She did swear that it was incredibly easy, even for total noobs, and that I’d probably learn how to ride a wave less than an hour.

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Dating. Courtship. I never understood what those words meant because I’ve never seen a need for these rituals in my life. To date someone involves a certain kind of caution and certainty-seeking that I don’t have the patience for; I believe that the only way you can ever be sure of how the other sees you is by jumping in with your eyes closed. My idea of getting into relationships involves talking nonstop until both parties have fallen in love with each other, enough to want to be an item. The dating stage of my three serious relationships were pretty much whirlwind romance types that lasted less than a month; after realizing that, “You like/love me. I like/love you. Let’s be together!”, we’d officially take ourselves off the market. No dinner dates, no flowers, no dramatic displays of love. (Well okay, the catalyst of the second relationship was the relief I felt over his having survived a physical confrontation with 75 men, but this is a strange story for another time.)

So I wanted to do something different with Marco and try to make the dating period last as long as possible. It wasn’t because I was unsure of what I felt for him; in fact, from the moment I first saw him (January 3 at Cantina through the intercession of the Hohobags; I have Kimi and Rica to thank for being particularly insistent that I be there that night), I liked him. The more I got to know him that night and the weekends that followed, the more I realized that a) we are insanely compatible (he likes zombie movies and he actually listens when I talk about Marxism), b) he gets cuter every time I see him, c) I can’t imagine a weekend without seeing him, d) shit, I want to be with him but he probably won’t feel the same way because I’m creepy and dorky and weird. So I kissed him (and with a “kbye!” I made my way quickly into my house because I couldn’t look him in the eye after). I figured that if I never hear from him after that night, my fears would be confirmed and I can just chalk this up to another one of my many failures in dating/relationships.

But I did hear from Marco the next day! And at some point over the next couple of weeks, he actually told me that he was falling in love with me! OMG OMG OMG. The Relationship Talk was inevitable at that point. He admitted that things were going unbelievably fast for him because it usually takes him forever to warm up to people. Not that he wasn’t happy being around me though. The problem is that he can’t accept happiness until he feels he has earned it. And to that, I showed an unexpected amount of maturity and patience. The old neurotic me would have freaked out, but all I said was, “Okay, take your time. We have all the time in the world. It’s not like I’m dying or moving out of the country or anything.”

Last night, Marco took me to a fancy restaurant carrying a huge bag and a bouquet of flowers. “No, these are not for you yet,” he replied mysteriously when he caught me looking at the bouquet. Throughout our appetizers (snooty French onion soup with lots of cheese), he kept fiddling with something under the table. I wondered if he was setting up a bomb to blow the place up, and if dying together was his idea of romance.

Finally, Marco explained what was going on. He was ready to jump into a relationship with me, but before doing so he wanted to “earn” it by courting me in record time.

“Wait, that’s completely unnecessary, you know I don’t believe in courtshi-”

“Just play along, it’ll be fun!”

And when I nodded dumbly, still confused about what was going on, he procured a checklist and timer from under the table.

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Today, I took my first tentative steps towards independence: I sold my financial soul to the gods of Philippine real estate in exchange for a little shoebox I can call my home.

People with a superficial knowledge of my life and who I am would probably think I’m crazy for wanting to live on my own, when I can easily live at my parents’ and enjoy the free food and free board (in a very very comfortable, spacious, well-lit room) for an indefinite period of time. It’s not because my parents are suffocatingly strict; on the contrary, they’re actually pretty cool for Filipino parents. Not only do they let me stay out late on weekends and allow me to go to trips out of town and abroad by myself; they’ve stopped giving me hell about my smoking, and don’t mind when my friends come over to trash the place like rock stars. Hell, they let my (then) boyfriend stay at our place last year. Seriously, how many Filipino parents would say yes to a request like, “So there’s this guy I met on the Internet and we’re together now and I’m madly in love with him and can I keep him in the guest room while he comes here to visit for two weeks?” I think my dad was a little bit relieved when I told him that Ale and I decided to just stay friends. He once caught me and Ale asleep together and damn near had a stroke.

That’s exactly my point, though. No matter how cool my parents are, parents are still parents who’ll still restrict their children in little ways that they can’t stand. I hate having to answer the usual battery of questions of who, what, where, and what-time-will-you-be-home before I head out. It embarrasses me that at 22 years old, my parents still insist on driving me to and picking me up from places even though I’m perfectly able to use public transportation. What finally convinced me to seriously work on Plan Move Out was when my mom snapped at me for putting a little too much patis on my arroz caldo. At this age, I really should be eating my food the way I want to.

More than just the desire to be free in these many little ways, it also bothers me that I have it too easy. I’m too sheltered from the harsh realities and inconveniences of everyday life and as much as I love my parents, I don’t need their protection anymore. What I need is to learn how to live on my own and the drama of grown-up responsibilities that come with it, like paying the bills, coming up with the money to pay the bills, doing the laundry, or making my own meals.

By late 2012, home will be one-bedroom flat I fondly call The Shoebox. You know how the song Little Boxes is pretty much a description of American suburbia? I think condominiums are like shoeboxes stacked neatly into tall towers. The Lauren of six months ago would have found that severely depressing, and in a way I still do, but I really like my Shoebox and I think I’m going to enjoy living there. It’s on the sixth floor and faces the sunrise, the size is just right, the payment terms are amazingly easy, and the brochures didn’t give me any crap about how the development is master-planned to be the urban yuppie’s ultimate escape from the noise and pollution of the city. I hate those pretentiously-named condominium projects designed to be a self-sustaining city, as if the simulacra of landscaped gardens and gleaming shop windows could trick me into thinking life in the Philippines is this easy and pretty. The building I’ll be living in is a little more honest than that: it has its intercoms and security guards, but if I look out the window I can admire the Pasig river in all its murky glory.

Beginning March, I need to put at least 15,000 pesos into my brand new checking account at the 23rd of every month, or I’ll be a criminal for issuing bouncing checks. This means that unless I earn at least 20 thousand upwards per month, I’ll have to cut back on the going out and the shopping. Maybe I am crazy for deciding to buy my own place even though I don’t have a “real job” and have no plans of ever becoming an office monkey again. Maybe I have too much faith in my guerilla money-making skills. But if I don’t learn to do this now, I’ll always be this daydreamy overgrown kid who’s never known a day of serious grown-up responsibilities.

I wonder if I can still call myself a Marxist now that I’m on my way to owning private property.