I am forty years old today.
In the days leading to my birthday, I had been on the lookout for telltale signs. Aching joints, perhaps? Unsightly bulges? White hair? Memory lapses? Strangers calling me ale?
After conditional exes and a couple of hmmms, I have decided that I am nowhere near old. Thirty-nine may seem formidable, but 40? Heck, it’s nothing but a number!
For how can I be “old” when I shift to Dora the Explorer mode at bedtime? My TV viewing fare includes Little Bill and Out of the Box. By the bedside are The Valiant Little Tailor, No Jumping on the Bed, Blue’s Art Day and Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?
Sure the e-groups I have enrolled in have sections for “old photos.” I am getting too old for Starstruck and the Young VIP Club. I have memory boxes brimming with, well, memories of 19, 23, 27 years ago.
When I turned 29, with marriage and a family nowhere in sight, well-meaning (hah!) relatives nagged me incessantly about hurrying up because “malapit ka na mawala sa kalendaryo.”
Well, 29, 30 and 31 passed, and they weren’t so bad. True, you won’t find my age in the calendar anymore. But it’s still in lotto. And in ten years, it’d still be in Bingo.