July 5, 2012

The 34-year old single senior citizen

Text by Witchella

Image by Hustino

Age is just a number... 40s is the new 20s... If there's any truth to these at all, perhaps it's the fact that they are uttered to provide some form of cushion when the time comes the reality you evade and deny finally hits you with a solid blow—You are getting old!

I am 34 yrs old and I owe it to my Asian lineage that my skin, facial features, and fairly petite bone structure efficiently conceal this fact and even shed eight years off the number. The genuine shock on the faces of my dentist, my spa attendant, and a bunch of strangers after I reveal my age would vouch for the veracity of my claim and hopefully dispel any suspicion that I might just be holding a magic mirror projecting false illusions of youth.

One warm afternoon though, as I was already in the area of my Alma Mater for a prior meeting, I decided to try my luck and see if I could claim my yearbook a decade after I graduated from the university. I climbed the familiar antiquated stairs and peeked at the window I was directed to. I immediately discussed my purpose to the bespectacled male employee who began flipping through old oversized logbooks. He said in a bored tone "Full name. Year graduated."

I provided him with the precise details with a shy apologetic smile. He then wrinkled his nose and began turning pages at a faster pace. Then he looked straight at me and said "I meant your name when you were in college!" My brain paused for a split second and then strained to decode what seemed to me was a riddle he was throwing at me. Certain concepts entered my mind... Name? Like nickname? Or did he mean titles like team captain of the women's volleyball team? MS. THOMASIAN? What if you did not have a title in college, they wouldn't be able to trace your yearbook? "Name in college?" I repeated to him. And then he spat out the words that almost made me do a live demonstration of spontaneous human combustion due to rage.

"Yes, Ma'am. I need your name when you were in college. That's 10 years ago, so I assume you're now married and have changed your last name."

For some reason I felt numb for a second. And then I replied in an almost inaudible voice "It's the same name. I am not married. Kindly double check the year instead." He obliged and then finally found my same name in the right year.

I walked out of the building feeling a bit heavy. Maybe, it was because of the yearbook, which was the size of two combined huge encyclopedias. That's a lie.

It was something else. I was bothered. Why did that bespectacled boy infuriate me? I should be grateful. After all, he successfully dug out my decade old yearbook.

Then on my way to the parking lot, as I was admiring the majestic elegant quintessential Spanish architectural design of my four-century old Alma Mater, with its proud statue crowded roof bathing in the golden rays of the sun under the clear blue sky, I finally accepted the truth. I got mad because someone unblinkingly injected me with the ultimate unsettling truth serum... I am getting old and I am single. And of all the places this truth could hit me, it should be here, in the oldest Royal Pontifical University in Asia.

I am sure we all have our own versions of coming to terms with the fact that we're truly getting old. Some obvious signs are hard to discount such as the rising number of veins on our hands and legs, the incessant appearance of age spots on ours faces that greets us every morning, the increasing number of food supplements in our list of things to buy in the drugstore, the escalating amount of our high-powered artillery against UV rays with the highest caliber of SPF, and of course our frequent additions to our weapons of anti-aging skin creams on our dressers.

Yes, age is just a number... a number that moves consistently forward that you can't stop nor reverse. So what the hell, right? Try all reasonable resources to be the best version of yourself and just embrace your number with dignity and grace. Own it! Mine is 34!

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