Not pressured enough

JUST as I’m about to embark on a study spree—which includes hours of poring over my notes, occasional note-taking by hand, and intermittent sipping of brewed coffee—my father, a gracious man who’s turning 65 this October, drags me to the cinema.


“I can’t. I’m too busy,” I tell him.

He insists that I go. He and my mother are practically inside the Quezon City apartment for most of the time, and weekends are their only chances at going out—a moment my brother calls their “day off.” Why they’d rather spend time inside when they could well be off to, say, Baguio or Batangas, is something we don’t get, either. Maybe my parents are just two people getting old.

“You’ll pass it anyway. Don’t even think of getting a perfect mark—you probably won’t,” he says, laughing.

“No, Tay. I just don’t want to fail.”

Like an obedient child, I pack my computer and my notes and reassemble my back pack and between us is a compromise: I will go with them to the mall, but I will not watch a movie (The Machinist) but stay inside the coffee shop to study.

The Uber arrives, and we go. I don’t study. I still don’t feel pressured enough to start. So I write this. I should have gone inside the cinema, too.

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