By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine
LIKE death and taxes, aging is inevitable -- and terrifying. Think mortality, weakened knees, dementia, disease, being ignored and suddenly invisible.
In these isles where respect for elders is the norm and you’re not there yet, things can get really annoying.
(Photo: Author [right] and friend O find eternal youth in sharing laughter)
Overnight it seems, everyone on the street has become solicitous, reaching out a hand to assist you board the LRT, giving up their seats quicker than you can grasp the handrail, properly deferential with their “po” and “opo,” and, in this clan-conscious culture, suddenly filial, addressing you with the requisite “Nay” and “’Mi,” (short for Mommy), that you’ve always thought went with a full head of silver, a walker and a 45-degree stoop.
“Nay, ano’ng oras na po?” the burly kargador-looking man asks, seeing through the Mohawk hairstyle, the dangling earrings and the denims you’re wearing. “ ’Mi, dito po tayo,” the medical technician says, ever so gently, like he can see osteoporosis in your future even before he slips the negatives in the x-ray machine.
Once, dressed in my imitation Crocs, the aforementioned denims, a white hanging blouse and with my straight hair framing my slack jaw, I found the woman across the jeepney aisle curiously eyeing me. Studying my get-up and glancing at my face, she suddenly breaks into an approving smile before touching my arm with a confidante-like intimacy. “Alam mo, ’nay, ” she says, pursing her lips towards my wardrobe, “carry mo iyan.”
(Photo: Working with friends: rejuvenating)
I should be flattered, my daughter says. “She thinks you can carry the youthful look well, the opposite being that you dress too young for your age.” Alright, I thought, having seen crones and hags in mini-skirts, their varicose veins in full neon glory, faces pasty with layers of foundation and pressed powder, and their turkey neck weighed down by the baubles and bangles of their grandchildren. Well, after all, aren’t we supposed to be as young as we feel? Why begrudge these grandmas that youthful 1920s Flappers feeling if they find comfort in it? Just wince and turn your head away, I say.
Fortunately, a recent weekend in Bohol helped me come to terms with my being on the wrong side of 50. There we were, board members of a woman’s organization, come to Bohol to discuss a future severely circumscribed by depleted resources. That hardly figured in my packing however. Swimsuit? Check. Goggles? Check. Sun hat? Check. Sunblock? Check. Beach shoes? Check. It was the height of the monsoon season, but like our calendar age, these are details we choose to ignore.
Harder to ignore because it’s so different from our concrete jungle lives is the refreshing greenery of Bohol where good friend C. has built a hilltop eyrie overlooking lush forest, white beach and a dot of islands beyond the shoreless sea. Between discussing funding possibilities, the group repaired to the wraparound balcony to marvel at the mountains outlined in the distance and to discuss wondrous meals that certainly did little for one’s waistline. Well, after all, the group said, eyeing the mounds of boiled kamote, red rice, shrimps in coconut cream and danggit, that’s why there’s Lipitor . Let us sin so we can be forgiven, we declared, burping. And don’t forget, said appointed group head O, these are fresh veggies, picked straight from C’s pocketsize vegetable plot.
Thanks to M, the energetic 40-year-year-old taskmaster in the group, we managed to plod through our agenda, never once finding parallel between our flagging funds and our waning youth. How could we? There was just too little time to dwell on the wrinkles, the fading eyesight and the senior moments. Thanks to a telescope, we peered at the moon and found the sea of serenity, imagining it as a corner in our heart that remains impervious to cholesterol. The erudite in the group pointed out the Milky Way, the belt of Orion, and other heavenly wonders we had first encountered in our elementary Science class. Could we have forgotten the hard lessons of some 40 years back? Maybe, but the sense of wonder remains, easily erasing four decades off our skin.
Somebody else -- the lawyer who smokes like a chimney -- brought out dance CDs, the Swing, some Latin music, disco, the Beatles. “Bend your knees, stand on tiptoes, close your eyes, let the beat move your body,” she instructed and I did. Hey, I must be dancing, I thought, because the househelp were giggling. Thanks to my two left feet, I’ve always managed to make people laugh when I take to the floor. The years, it seems, have magnified that gift.
The last night we decided to read love poems, giddy with feeling 18 again and newly discovering love. Maybe it was the wine? No matter. C, newly widowed, declared that her next man must be both astronomer and poet -- so he can coax the stars and bring it home to her eyes. Who says one can ever get too old to dream?
This is the life, we said, mentally filing away the scene. This is being ageless: Living life to the hilt, toasting friends, savoring earth’s bounty, remembering old lovers and new, compiling good memories to hear the laughter again. We left Bohol reciting a poem that we think sums up the mysteries of life and aging -- learning to accept love’s ups and downs with tongue firmly planted in cheek. That way, the skin is stretched out tight and you’d look decades younger. So who needs botox, right?
PS: Here’s one of our favorite poems on that Night We Slew Wrinkles:
Wearing the Collar
by Charles Bukowski
I live with a lady and four cats and some days we all get along
some days I have trouble with one of the cats.
other days I have trouble with two of the cats.
other days, three.
some days I have trouble with all four of the cats
and the lady:
ten eyes looking at me
as if I was a dog.
For more notes looking good at any age and dressing your age, check out this Sunday’s Inquirer Magazine. Free with your copy of the Inquirer.
(Photos by Mags Maglana)
By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine
LIKE death and taxes, aging is inevitable -- and terrifying. Think mortality, weakened knees, dementia, disease, being ignored and suddenly invisible.
In these isles where respect for elders is the norm and you’re not there yet, things can get really annoying.
(Photo: Author [right] and friend O find eternal youth in sharing laughter)
Overnight it seems, everyone on the street has become solicitous, reaching out a hand to assist you board the LRT, giving up their seats quicker than you can grasp the handrail, properly deferential with their “po” and “opo,” and, in this clan-conscious culture, suddenly filial, addressing you with the requisite “Nay” and “’Mi,” (short for Mommy), that you’ve always thought went with a full head of silver, a walker and a 45-degree stoop.
“Nay, ano’ng oras na po?” the burly kargador-looking man asks, seeing through the Mohawk hairstyle, the dangling earrings and the denims you’re wearing. “ ’Mi, dito po tayo,” the medical technician says, ever so gently, like he can see osteoporosis in your future even before he slips the negatives in the x-ray machine.
Once, dressed in my imitation Crocs, the aforementioned denims, a white hanging blouse and with my straight hair framing my slack jaw, I found the woman across the jeepney aisle curiously eyeing me. Studying my get-up and glancing at my face, she suddenly breaks into an approving smile before touching my arm with a confidante-like intimacy. “Alam mo, ’nay, ” she says, pursing her lips towards my wardrobe, “carry mo iyan.”
(Photo: Working with friends: rejuvenating)
I should be flattered, my daughter says. “She thinks you can carry the youthful look well, the opposite being that you dress too young for your age.” Alright, I thought, having seen crones and hags in mini-skirts, their varicose veins in full neon glory, faces pasty with layers of foundation and pressed powder, and their turkey neck weighed down by the baubles and bangles of their grandchildren. Well, after all, aren’t we supposed to be as young as we feel? Why begrudge these grandmas that youthful 1920s Flappers feeling if they find comfort in it? Just wince and turn your head away, I say.
Fortunately, a recent weekend in Bohol helped me come to terms with my being on the wrong side of 50. There we were, board members of a woman’s organization, come to Bohol to discuss a future severely circumscribed by depleted resources. That hardly figured in my packing however. Swimsuit? Check. Goggles? Check. Sun hat? Check. Sunblock? Check. Beach shoes? Check. It was the height of the monsoon season, but like our calendar age, these are details we choose to ignore.
Harder to ignore because it’s so different from our concrete jungle lives is the refreshing greenery of Bohol where good friend C. has built a hilltop eyrie overlooking lush forest, white beach and a dot of islands beyond the shoreless sea. Between discussing funding possibilities, the group repaired to the wraparound balcony to marvel at the mountains outlined in the distance and to discuss wondrous meals that certainly did little for one’s waistline. Well, after all, the group said, eyeing the mounds of boiled kamote, red rice, shrimps in coconut cream and danggit, that’s why there’s Lipitor . Let us sin so we can be forgiven, we declared, burping. And don’t forget, said appointed group head O, these are fresh veggies, picked straight from C’s pocketsize vegetable plot.
Thanks to M, the energetic 40-year-year-old taskmaster in the group, we managed to plod through our agenda, never once finding parallel between our flagging funds and our waning youth. How could we? There was just too little time to dwell on the wrinkles, the fading eyesight and the senior moments. Thanks to a telescope, we peered at the moon and found the sea of serenity, imagining it as a corner in our heart that remains impervious to cholesterol. The erudite in the group pointed out the Milky Way, the belt of Orion, and other heavenly wonders we had first encountered in our elementary Science class. Could we have forgotten the hard lessons of some 40 years back? Maybe, but the sense of wonder remains, easily erasing four decades off our skin.
Somebody else -- the lawyer who smokes like a chimney -- brought out dance CDs, the Swing, some Latin music, disco, the Beatles. “Bend your knees, stand on tiptoes, close your eyes, let the beat move your body,” she instructed and I did. Hey, I must be dancing, I thought, because the househelp were giggling. Thanks to my two left feet, I’ve always managed to make people laugh when I take to the floor. The years, it seems, have magnified that gift.
The last night we decided to read love poems, giddy with feeling 18 again and newly discovering love. Maybe it was the wine? No matter. C, newly widowed, declared that her next man must be both astronomer and poet -- so he can coax the stars and bring it home to her eyes. Who says one can ever get too old to dream?
This is the life, we said, mentally filing away the scene. This is being ageless: Living life to the hilt, toasting friends, savoring earth’s bounty, remembering old lovers and new, compiling good memories to hear the laughter again. We left Bohol reciting a poem that we think sums up the mysteries of life and aging -- learning to accept love’s ups and downs with tongue firmly planted in cheek. That way, the skin is stretched out tight and you’d look decades younger. So who needs botox, right?
PS: Here’s one of our favorite poems on that Night We Slew Wrinkles:
