Sundays are not supposed to be spent this way

You see, God designed Sundays to be a day of relaxation. Ideally, He wanted it to be a day spent – if not with the family - in front of the television. I, for one, already had a plan on how to spend this particular Sunday. The Evander Holyfield fight would be shown on TV and - as part of my growing obsession of watching finely chiseled adults swap merciless haymakers at each other - I was excited to catch it.

Unfortunately, my anticipation of the Holyfield – Ibragimov fight would be left at just that: anticipation.

A few days ago, a client called the workplace and asked if I could cover an event at the PICC for an award ceremony for some supposedly intelligent children. Being a grossly obedient (for the most part) employee, I had no choice but to adhere to client’s wishes all the while resigning myself to the fact that not only would I not be able to watch the Holyfield fight, but I would also be doing something even the Lord never did: work on a Sunday.

(Forgive me, Lord, for my lame attempt at humor.)

I deliberately held off from going to the Philippine International Convention Center until 10 in the morning as a sign of utter defiance. ‘They make me work today, I’ll make them wait’, I thought. I even texted my colleague Ozmund about my deliberate act of delinquent behavior only to find out that he, too, would leave his home at a time much later than he should have. At least now I’m comforted by a workfellow harboring equal resentment of having to work on this day.

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The PICC, for the uninitiated, is a labyrinth of stairs, corridors, stairs, gardens, and even more stairs. So, upon arriving (naturally), I got lost inside. A gracious janitor finally took pity at this wandering idiot and led the way to the Plenary Hall, which, as it turns out, was in the adjacent building from the one I spent an inordinate amount of time exploring. Now, I had planned to show up 10, two hours after the supposed meeting time. But the unexpected field trip of the PICC grounds pushed my arrival time by an hour.

In an effort to save face, I sneaked inside the Plenary Hall and sat at a dimly lit area of the room, pretending to have been there for a while and applauding the children whose names I don’t even know. Client, however, saw my devious deed of deception, sat next to me, and promptly informed me that it was 11 in the morning and I was, as a matter of fact, late.

I had, of course, anticipated such a reaction and came prepared with a heartfelt and remorseful excuse about how I had overslept, ate some questionable yoghurt, ran into heavy traffic, and got lost in the PICC. None of which – except for the last part – was true. Client still didn’t buy my “eventful morning” explanation and told me that, as punishment, myself and Ozmund, who showed up much later than I did, would have to sit and observe the entire ceremony.

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Had it not been for separate incidents of juvenile fisticuffs and two children making out, the whole afternoon would have passed by without any meaningful episode.

So as one can expect, both of us were bored to extinction. To pass time, Ozmund commented and dissected the entire event, making recommendations on how he would have organized it. From improving the less than spectacular bubble-inspired stage to rearranging the sitting arrangements, nothing was spared from his keen observations.

As for me, in between listening to him and playing a Family Computer-inspired racing game on my week-old Nokia, I was, as expected, sleeping.

After an afternoon that dragged on longer than we had hoped for, we decided to plot our exit strategy. I would confess to client that I had to pick-up my brother at the airport at 3:30 p.m. and Ozmund would use an unexpected meeting with an ethnic dance group in the heart of Binondo as our tickets out of the conference.

With our game faces on, we took turns explaining our respective plights to the client, saying that we had other matters that need to be addressed. Fortunately, Ozmund was well adept in pitiful facial expressions as his batting eyelashes proved to be a formidable asset.

So after being excused, the two of us hastily made a run for the door, fearful that client would have a change of heart and hold us hostage for the rest of the day. When it became obvious that we had, indeed, been spared, we smoked our final cigarettes and went our separate ways.

If I may be excused, I would ask for forgiveness for not being captivated by young children - some bright enough to be potential future leaders of our country – receiving plastic trophies. It’s admirable, really; maybe even significant. But entertaining it was not.

And unfortunately, entertainment was what I was hoping for this Sunday. And I’m willing to stake a week’s worth of lunch and say that I would’ve been more entertained watching Evander Holyfield dance around the ring than I would’ve been watching young children accepting plastic trophies with blank stares on their faces.