Chow Yun Fat and Jose Rizal: The Men I Almost Married Had Fate Not Interfered

You know that someone is your friend when she or he can tell you who your men had been and how crazy you were about them. You can forget. Your friends don't.

It happened when I confessed to Ana about my current infatuation, nay, addiction to anything Michael Bublé. I told her he is the man I want to marry. Right now. That I love his wit, his humor, his good looks (Oh, how can this century produce a man whose charm can match that of Cary Grant, Gregory Peck and Clark Gable!), his stage presence, his charm, his singing voice that both melts the ice and ignites fire.

And to hell with his womanizing ways and pretty ex-girlfriends and current Argentine lover. Oh to hell with his money and fame and fortune! What I know is that he adores his family, his grampa and his gramma Yolanda! Oh what a co-incidence! Yolanda! OK, I have just been shot dead!

"You know what, you're just like that with your two ex-fantasy boyfriends - Chow Yun Fat and Jose Rizal!" So she reminded me.

Chow Yun Fat in early 2000. My one-way love affair started with Anna and the King. Hence, I read all articles I could find in the net about him. I even asked my Hongkonese friend about him. I was told he was the Prince to the folks in Hong Kong and China. Knowing someone who had actually met Chow Yun Fat at that time was humanity's gift to me.

Seven years later, Jose Rizal rose from the dead. I was asked to teach Rizal in school as there was no one else available. And because I had to cut operating expenses. And because I had to do something else to keep me sane where I work, I agreed to teach Rizal. Being the professional that I was, I had to be prepared. So I read three history books on Rizal and bought and read three books written by Ambeth Ocampo, THE certified Rizal scholar, and read as many articles on Rizal in the Internet. I taught about the life of Rizal so passionately I made some of my students cry, literally cry when I discussed in exalted admiration the causes of his death and how wasted his sacrifices had been because now, we regard him only as the head embossed on our almost useless peso coin or simply a name of a street or a town or a bank or a bag of cement. For 14 weeks, I lived, breathed, ate Rizal. And I came to love him. Loved him enough to almost join the Rizalistas.

Then came Bublé.