Or so they say. But in this age of text messaging and Internet blogging, gossiping—that once-harmless pastime enjoyed by miserly spinsters on lazy afternoons over cups of tea—has ridden the wave of the future and taken a turn for the worse. Hushed speculations that used to be kept within the confines of sets of friends are now widely publicized fodder for everyone. And in this viral age, you don’t have to be a celebrity to be gossiped about on the Internet. It could happen to anyone, as it happened to me.

The worst thing about it is that it is so public. When before, the gossipee could live her whole life not knowing that everyone thought she was a (insert derogatory comment here), now it’s broadcasted for the whole world, and even the gossipee, to see. That the population thinks you’re fat/nerdy/uncool/unpretty could all just be a click of a mouse away. The second worst thing about it is that it is so permanent. At least in the past, gossip, however terrible, was just passed from mouth to ear to mouth to ear. Now, if you’re branded on the Internet, you’re branded for life. Your only hope would be that the blogger or forum-administrator—who comfortably hides under a pseudonym—would delete the entry entirely. Then again, if he/she was malicious enough to namecall or start a rumor about you in the first place, it would be foolish to expect any concessions from that person that would reverse the damage done.

And so you try and do what you can but there aren’t a lot of options. You can ignore it, with no effect; or you can try and fight back, in vain. The most you can do, really, is blog about the truth yourself but you must understand that the one who draws first blood calls the shots. She has the shock factor on her side while your feeble attempts are easily misconstrued as damage control—a way to make the sordid claims a little less embarrassing, a lot more palatable.

I don’t know. They say it’s good that all this technology gives power to the people. But sometimes you wonder if this is the kind of power that the people know how to wield in the first place.

I tried to put up a fight, I really did. But he’s one of those people who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Seemingly fed up with my thinly-veiled misgivings, he finally said he’d leave me alone for a minute to think about it. The one-two punch was delivered when his assistant seized this opportunity to pull me aside and said, “Darling, he’s not just any stylist. He’s an artiste (emphasis on the e). Mess with his creativity and he’ll mess with your hair.”

Defeated at last, I pretended to read the magazine in front of me but I was all-too-aware of the snip-snip-snipping away near my nape. Scissors have never been that close to that part of my neck ever. With sickening unease, I realized he was aiming for chin length. The last time my hair was that short was in third grade.

For the next week or so, my every waking thought was how much I missed my long, straight, black hair. But then I remembered that I’m one of those girls who looked forward to makeover day on America’s Next Top Model and rolled their eyes at girls who cried like they were dying when their hair’s chopped off. I thought “That’s just hair, it’ll grow back.” Admittedly, not all of Tyra’s makeovers are phenomenal, some are truly disastrous and some models are better off with pre-makeover hair. But what separated the true winners from the sore losers is that the former embraced the change, never mind that it made them look more like a guy and less like a model. The winners worked with it and never complained. Or if they did, they never showed it.

I don’t hate or love my hair, I can only say that it’s different. But you know what they say about faking it until you make it? I have decided to own it until I grow it.

It’s just that, the first sight of these pretty little things flipping their perfect little hair in the direction of your boyfriend is sure to annoy you. Once introduced, they will grate on your nerves with their lilting laughs and coy innuendo. Already aggravated, any further interaction only results in them pushing all your buttons. Or at least, seeming to do so. Instinctively, you will set off on a warpath to obliterate her.

I’ve realized, though, that the key to keeping your relationship hassle- and jealousy-free is not to destroy the girl who threatens you. What you need to do is make an about-face and take on the biggest of all battles—your relationship with your guy. If he’s happy and you’re happy and your relationship is strong, the Other Girl can flutter her lashes all she wants and she wouldn’t stand a chance.

I could be wrong, but what has probably got you so riled up is not so much that she’s Evil Incarnate but that you and the Other Girl are so alike that you’re scared your guy will trade one for the other. The way I see it, if you keep yourself happy and keep him happy, he won’t ever do a double take.

It wasn’t that the girls were being extra racy, or over-the-top daring, or super aggressive this time. It was that during this particular episode that was supposed to have been their reunion—months after they’ve last seen each other and after having lived with and made nice to each other for several weeks—they were at each other’s throats! Believe me, they were being very creative with their insults. And it wasn’t enough that they were disparaging one or another girl in front of a live audience. Every so often, scenes of the girls from the confessional room stabbing each other in the back would be shown. They were vicious.

What bothers me is that guys are never that nasty to each other. Sure, they fight. But they don’t play their squabbles out like it’s some soap opera or dish out backhanded attacks and counter-attacks as frequently. They don’t spend endless hours peddling gossip about each other. Worse, they don’t make codenames for their frenemies just so they can continue to talk about her at length.

Could it be true? Do boys tend to stick up for each other, while girls tear each other apart? Do we always see each other as the competition? Can’t we all just get along?

There is the girl who humbles herself, latches onto a relationship fiercely until she is let go, dredges the bottom until she can no longer find any scraps or semblance of what she used to love. This girl will hang on until she is at the point of humiliation. At the end of the day, when the relationship finally falls apart, she is content in knowing there was nothing else she could have done to save it. She thinks this’ll give her less of a reason to look back and regret.

And then there’s the girl who recoils at the first sign of trouble. She will withdraw faster than he has a chance to prove her wrong. She’d rather be the one who rejects than the one rejected. She covers her bases quickly, and shuts out any possibility of being embarrassed or offended. She’d rather have her pride intact than the truth, with all its potentially gory details.

There are pros and cons to being one or the other.

So which one do you think you’ll be?

“Couples, of course!” Nicole said, enthusiastically. “Why, you fall in love all over again! Flowers in the morning, sweet messages throughout the day, a romantic dinner, and a Valentine’s gift to cap it off.”

“On the contrary,” Jill countered, “Valentine’s is not just about romantic love. It’s about celebrating love in all its forms. I can have a fab dinner with my friends or family and have as much fun as you.”

I thought back:
To those Valentine’s days spent single—doubled over in laughter with my friends, being silly, eating at a restaurant, or hitting the videoke. The bonding, the good vibes, the company. Those days were a blast.
Fast forward to Carlo’s and my first Valentine’s Day as a couple! Waking up to a call from him, those three long-stemmed roses, and, gosh, what a dinner date! The ambience, the mood, the candlelight, and the love of my life. It was perfect, I was transfixed!

“Well?” Nicole’s and Anne’s voice broke my reverie.

Who has more fun on Valentine’s Day? You tell me.

I don’t know about you, but I never get to keep mine. Whether I write them down in some official-looking list tacked on the cork board near my study table, in my diary or on a piece of paper neatly folded in my wallet (for easy reference) I can never, and I mean never, keep my New Year’s Resolutions.

Oh, but I have so much fun listing them down. Try to stop gossiping. Save 10% of your allowance every day! Don’t feel bad about sharing your clothes with Marsha. Help out in the household chores every Sunday. Finish your homework before watching TV.  Resist antagonizing your brothers. After a while, though, I noticed that these are the very same things I write down year in and year out.  If not, my list is longer. That means that, not only have I not gotten better, I got much worse.

So is it all a lost cause? Are we doomed to have the same nasty habits forever? Are we essentially the same immutable, unchangeable persons? Is New Year really an opportunity to jump-start the life that we want to lead and the person that we want to become? Or is it just any old day, much like any other day in the year?

I still don’t know. Meantime, let me copy my old list into a new one and see what happens again.

There’s just something about this jelly-bellied, red-cheeked, long-bearded, white-haired, reindeer-driven, red and black clad, grandfather-figure with a hearty laugh that goes “Ho-ho-ho!” that completely captures the imagination. At a young age, I remember just being gripped by excitement and anticipation over, first, whether I was on the nice or naughty list this year and, second, whether, I would get what I had told him I wanted in a letter tucked under my pillow (that just miraculously disappeared overnight). Growing up, I was never disappointed over the gifts that I’d unwrap on Christmas Eve. But as the years went on, I had a creeping sense of unease.

How come I NEVER saw Santa? Not even when I’d stay up all night waiting in front of the tree for him? The days leading up to Christmas, why would my mom lock herself up in their room after coming from the mall with bags and bags filled with things? How could Santa possibly visit all the kids around the world on Christmas Eve? There must be billions of us!

Sooner, rather than later, I knew better. But if only to get back that feeling of giddy, magical thrill, I kind of wish I didn’t.

Sure, it has its perks. There’s less reason to worry about how you’re going to go home late at night, how you’re dragging that heavy pile of books from your locker to the car, and how you’re ever going to finish off that triple chocolate cake and banana split. Still, boys and girls are so different that you know things are bound to get tricky.

Or so we’ve been told.

So then, will boys and girls every truly get along? What if girls want to just go to the mall or gossip and boys insist on the food court or play? Could boys ever be okay with a little healthy competition from the girls, on days when the girls take on their passion for sports? And what if feelings other than friendship develop, would it all be downhill from there for the whole gang?

Jury’s out, I guess. In the meantime, Jill and I will see who we can trick to drive us to the mall!

It’s like the first day of the school, or at camp or at a new neighborhood. I need so desperately to be accepted. The impression that I make that first five, 10 minutes that they see and talk to me is crucial. It’s make or break, it’s love or hate.

After that first meeting, they will either set Carlo up on future dates or marry us off. They will either say, “What a keeper” or “Forget her.”

Now, I know that the only foolproof way to impress someone is to be yourself. But how much of yourself can you really reveal when you’re given only a single evening to spend with them? How will you be able to show them the real you? Then again, given all of your little quirks and weirdness, would you even really want to?