MussoLOLen is Always Right! |

I am a firm believer that Sunday mornings are only good for sleeping in and regenerating the energy lost from Saturday night’s social activities. It most certainly is not the time to be scrambling madly about for something decent to wear for a breakfast date at Portico 1771 in Serendra.

Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a breakfast date before. At least, not since my last relationship went kablooey. In the first place, I’m not a morning person; on non-working days, I’m normally dead to the world til way past noon. Breakfast is usually a meal I have to force down my throat because my stomach is too sleepy to appreciate anything but coffee.

And then there’s the concept of a date, the intricate social dance where two people put on their prettiest masks in order to…well, I’m not really sure. When I’m trying to make an impression, I’d much rather be cloaked in the safety of the dark, where my blemishes and flaws are given a softer edge by the neon lights of a crowded club. I think the dance has already reached that point where my best foot is getting cramps from all that effort. It’s about time the makeup came off and for the crass, less sophisticated, and not-so-charming other foot to step forward.

Photo by Dine
because I forgot to bring my camera

What my afternoon-nap-muddled mind can remember of breakfast is not the food per se, but how much I enjoyed the morning I spent at Serendra with my breakfast companion. I didn’t care that it took something like twenty minutes for our food to reach our table. In fact, I was grateful for the leisurely pace, which gave us more time to talk about everything and anything that bubbled up on the surface of our minds. Not that the arrival of my french toast and his chicken tocino stopped me from making jabs at his masculinity–which he retaliated with wisecracks about my closet girly-girliness. We were the noisiest people there, or maybe that was just me talking a little too enthusiastically and laughing a little too loudly at his jokes. If people were giving me dirty looks for not behaving like a Dalagang Filipina, I didn’t notice nor would I have cared. I was having a lot of fun.

Serendra is prettier on a Sunday morning. Perhaps it was the absence of the snooty socialites or maybe it was the seratonin high, but walking past the sleepy shutters of the shop windows felt like a lazy stroll in a Victorian park. We waited for Fully Booked to open its money-black hole doors at a coffee shop, and resisted the temptation to spend ridiculous amounts on books and CDs. As what happens when you’re with someone whose company you truly enjoy, the hours flew by quickly and it was time to head back.

If waking up early means spending my mornings like this, maybe I could be a morning person after all.