Everything’s new at 81—except me
I’ve taken the giant leap from matron to elderly. I only wish there was another term, but what else can I be called at 81? One consolation is I’m blessed with the legendary Roces genes, themselves a fair reason to feel upbeat.
For starters, I have three uncles, the last living of a brood of nine, all still perfectly lucid at 98, 90 and 88. They somehow make me feel young enough to dare put that celebratory extra candle on my birthday cake.
I’ll surely have a cake—aside from the one sent by the barangay routinely to senior birthday celebrators—and my favorite dishes, but definitely no party. I already had my last prepandemic milestone party last year. And to think I had had second thoughts about it, considering it was just a small lunch with intimate friends and relations and another with my family. But no, I wouldn’t have missed for the world the grand chance to hug and be hugged by a hundred friends and family and be paid tribute—while still alive!
Our dear friend Fr. Tito Caluag celebrated the Mass, a sort of tradition. For most of my guests, it turned out to be their last party for the year. It was also the last time I was with many of them in person. For, by March the following month, all plans were scrapped perforce: We all had no choice but to stay home.
Engaged with the world
From our cozy-enough condo, Vergel and I managed to remain engaged with the world, albeit vicariously and virtually, mostly via TV.
Once reserved for special occasions, Father Tito’s morning Mass ushered in the daily routine of our quarantined existence. We followed the American elections more closely than local news, only because there was comparatively scarce coverage of our own affairs.
We kept in touch with family and friends via Zoom or FaceTime. As soon as permitted, I resumed my aqua exercises, as Vergel did his tennis. We may have learned—I mean really learned—more about each other in this pandemic year than in the more than 30 years we’ve lived together.
The gift of this pandemic has been precisely the lockdown; it has somehow accelerated work on things begging our attention. With no way of escaping each other, we had to confront residual flaws in our second relationship, a few tiny cracks denied or minimized, petty but irritating, corrosive to a degree.
The confrontation, however, would not have been resolved as positively, conclusively, had we not done certain things by text mostly. Indeed, new technology saved us from the loud and shrill unpleasantries of confrontations; it gave one the shield that allows courage to be candid.
I wonder if some marriages could not have been served as well by cell phone communication had it been available in those times—although I’m told of breakups facilitated by precisely the same convenience. In any case, it was vital in our case, but that is not to belittle our own efforts.
As serious writers of sorts, Vergel and I are certainly helped by training, profession and force of habit by a conscious adherence to structure and clarity on paper or in text. That way, exchanges are kept focused and civil. I believe we got a lot out of our system. Thanks to that handy miracle tool in our predisposed hands, we were able to confront our weaknesses and discover new strengths. And so, the air has been cleared; the next project for clearing was my closets.
Once upon a time they belonged to a matron in a flurry of social activities. Now, they’ve been taken over by a positive elderly. Now, they have breathing space. Now, any dress I pull out fits and is perfect for the nonoccasions that fill my pandemic days.
Having given away old and not-so-old clothes, I have an allnew wardrobe of dressy dusters, blouses and shorts, long and short pajamas with matching socks and well, some nightgowns. Anyway, all are acceptable wear at the breakfast table, or any meal for that matter— but I had to give quiet apologies to my late Lola Enchay, whose standards go back to the prim, if uncomfortable.
Lighten up about everything
Although we know better than to plan anything at all this year, we remain as dynamically engaged with life as ever. The pandemic has forced me to lighten up in just about everything. My efforts should be visible at home and in the much-altered circumstances of my relationships. I gave away possessions accumulated through the years to people I knew would not only appreciate them but also have the space for them. I never imagined that one day I’d value space more than anything I owned.
As bonus, I discovered the joy and liberating freedom in parting with things I used to love. I don’t mean, however, that I’ve stopped buying or needing. In fact, I’m on a sort of buying spree. There are new needs required by a new lifestyle and old age. I’m gifting myself with an iPad—for work, for my social and religious activities on Zoom, and for storing memories both old and new.
I’m changing our sofa covers—floral is a flirting choice. I got air-purifying plants for indoors. I bought the ultimate luxury of a Japanese toilet seat, and I have my eye on a dishwasher—just waiting for budget to permit it—to ease things for kasambahay Lanie and, looking beyond her—for me.
I never imagined that one day I’d value space more than anything I owned. I discovered the joy and liberating freedom in parting with things I used to love