Fever

#181: Coming down with fever

I wasn't feeling well last night. I don't know if it's the IT assignment I had to turn in before 8am today or the fact that at 12 midnight, I still haven't had my dinner (nor taken a shower. Sue me. Academic papers have that effect on me. I would much rather do presentations). In my pajamas, I wandered to our cold kitchen and figured I'd have breakfast at midnight. Not dinner. Breakfast. Like hotdogs and sunny-side-up egg. Drank Extra Joss (that stuff works) then popped a tablet of Paracetamol. But I still came down with fever...World Cup Fever!!!

Eyebrows down please. I know I've never been much of a sportsperson. The only sport I play is squash and it's not the easiest sport to find a partner for. I loved NBA during Michael Jordan's time. I even had a crush on Kukoc... or was it Paxton? Not sure now. I played softball in high school. Had a really cool bat and mitt to show for it too. But I abandoned that when I decided that I was done with the tomboy act. I discovered the use of a hairbrush.

But soccer... see, it's something that had always been in the background. The cutest guys in San Agustin would always be from the soccer team. They're the ones sent to Europe to bring home this cup they would talk about for weeks and weeks in the school's corridors. Come to think of it, all the guys I really liked had soccer in their blood. From my 1st year crush who probably didn't know my name after 2 quarters of sitting beside me in class and borrowing my notes... to the two dudes in third year who would, after walking through hallways with their muddied (and bloodied) spikes, engage in a showdown of gifts and letters and stuff to get the attention of the tomboy-turned-tomgirl... to this person a couple of years ago who broke his wrist being the goalie... to this person last year who came to my office showing me the gashes on his elbows and knees from a soccer game the previous night... to the man I love now who lives and breathes soccer.

It was bound to happen. It was just a matter of time. Yeah, the right time had to come. Or the right guy.

Cheers to Cahill!