"Look at your arms," Adrian taunted.
"What about my arms," I replied flatly. Adrian, a colleague, is a strapping young man of 23 summers, fresh off of uni, and smart. He's built like a horse and has a metabolism that's impervious to calorie intake. I took his bait and flexed my arm.
"OK, it's not all fat," he grudgingly conceded after feeling up the bulge of my biceps underneath my shirt. And then he felt it up again, like he really couldn't believe it wasn't all fat.
"It's pun fei sau," he pronounced, which made us both laugh.
Half fatty, half lean - when you want your char siu dripping with a little bit more love. Hence, pun fei sau char siu fan is a plate of rice topped with mixed lean and fatty roast pork. Pork fat makes my eyes roll to the back of my head and gives my heart a gentle, little squeeze.
Adrian and I had just been exchanging stories about what we were each up to over the weekend. His earlier taunt referred to the two portions of char siu fan I scarfed all by myself whilst watching the 25th anniversary concert of Les Miserables.
I was a wet, hot mess over the weekend - and it had nothing to do with rain. Chris left Sunday morning to go diving in Coron before he joins me in Manila for the Grand Finale of Mr. Gay World. Once I was free from the watchful eye of my healthy Aussie boyfriend, I made a beeline for the cha chaan teng at the corner of Possession Street for some beautiful roast meats.
I tucked into my takeaway as I pressed the play button on the Les Miz DVD, and I promptly burst into tears as the orchestra played the opening bars of "Look Down."
I was crying whilst eating, I couldn't get a hold of my emotions. It weighs heavily on me to deal with Mr. Gay Hong Kong's growing demands all by myself. On top of that, my blog now needs daily maintenance especially since it's starting to get some real traction. And to be able to keep both, I need to keep doing well with my day job, which has its attendant growing demands. I have a boyfriend whom I love and who loves me, but Chris happened to be away just when my water broke.
So there I was, sobbing like a little girl whilst I was stuffing my face with food. In front of me, Alfie Boe was singing "Bring Him Home," and fucking Colm Wilkinson, who must be 100 years old, had to appear onstage and sing, too. He looked and sounded great. I was full-on wailing. I horribly, horribly missed being onstage, and I wondered whether I made a mistake by changing career paths. Through my hysterical, tearful hiccups, I sang the "One Day More" encore with the company.
I was PMS-ing, obviously, and I couldn't deal with it. I wanted to throw away my entire MGW wardrobe, which I finished building last Saturday. Everything seemed wrong. I didn't wanna wear any of it. I didn't feel like any of the clothes were right for me. It was an image I was trying to project, and I wasn't being me. OK, that sounded totally indulgent, so someone slap me now.
At 11.30pm, I decided to replay Les Miz and I erupted into wracking sobs once again. I finished a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to wash down my late-night delivery of Mc Donald's Quarter Pounder meal.
I'm fat, I'm stressed, but I'm surrounded by beautiful music.
This is my life.
It makes me laugh; it makes me cry.
I'm leaving for the airport in less than half an hour and I can't get myself to finish packing.
I'm pun fei sau.