A “Spur-of-the-Moment” Thing

Perhaps one of the most effective means to gauge a person’s fun factor and sense of adventure (read: not boring) is through the way he plans. Or the way he doesn’t at all.

The first kind encompasses the conformists and martinets who have shape-shifted from organizer notebook-toting taskmasters to MacBook-sporting multitaskers. They are the sticklers for rules, the madmen who think they can live without oxygen but not without their priceless skeds and to-do lists.

The second type comprises the carefree, happy-go-lucky souls who truly believe that time and space will forever be at their beck and call, and are often caught in their most unguarded, but only because they never wanted to guard themselves in the first place. They’re the free spirits who soar and don’t mind getting jammed or stuck midway, because they’re captives of the moment, and of that moment alone.

Luckily and unluckily, I fall under the latter. Yes, still the same boring, predictable me. Being reared in Catholic schools and by conventional parents all my life has permanently engraved a set of tenets in my psyche that I have tacitly taken to heart. Like the default options of the computer, my life has been predestined, programmed mostly by my folks, and by the deluge of customs that I have willingly been fed.

But once in every layman’s dreary existence, he gets to taste the sweetness of spontaneity. Of stories unwritten in the books. Of random rules established through pure gut feel. Spur-of-the-moment. And then he starts wanting it more.

It wasn’t such a difficult decision to make. My mind suddenly chased away whatever second thoughts might have been badgering me as I geared up for the climb over the forbidden rusty gates at the back area of our campus. Our very Cathoilc school superiors prohibited us to leave its premises on the first day of our Sportsfest, the same day my group mates and I have set to conduct a now-or-never interview for a project of a 4-unit subject.

Upon the advice of a close pal whose middle name is “truancy,” six of us sneaked towards the gate that led to another entry and our only chance of liberty, but not without conquering the obstacle in front of us, a corroded gate which spelled T-E-T-A-N-U-S, and bags of trash eager to give you a stinking welcome if you unsuccessfully fall on your butt after the climb, or worse, on your face.

To do it, or not to do it? What would I lose anyway if I did it? I certainly wouldn’t mind losing a slot in the Most Wanted list of the S.A.O. Office. And if I do come down with an appointment in the S.A.O., then my retribution has been meted out fair and square. “If we’re going to do it, we do it now,” one of the wiser lawbreakers opined with conviction. Though we were but a few feet away from the direct gaze of our Clinical Preceptors who were lounging in their Monobloc chairs on the grass, we finally carried out our grand escape.

Each of us stealthily made the climb up, doing so without catching the sight of the busy and frolicsome venue where the athletes showed off their own escape plans against their opponents, (hopefully) oblivious of the six mischievous outlaws snaking their way out of the prison not far from where they were.

Those monkey bars in kindergarten did me good this time, I said to myself when it was my turn to grip the grimy rods of the gates. Heavily coated with rust, I couldn’t stop the gate from jangling, much to the alarm of my anxious companions. But in no time, I successfully made my way down. Yipee!

Unlike the utterly magnificent adventures and misadventures of some, mine was way below the “cool” radar. But not at all that bad for a “shy Catholic schoolgirl” who considers watching too much TV and copying assignments her closest attempts at breaking the rules. Besides, I still happily rhapsodize about those minutes of uncalled-for madness up until now.

That’s the beauty of anything spur-of-the-moment. Don’t think, just do it, and have a blast while you’re at it.

Carpe diem!