On Turning 70

Yes, folks, I just turned a jolly 70 a few days back, the Third of May. Thank you, all, for the greets and the well-wishes. And for welcoming me to Age Seventy. It is an age where I am now afforded more patience and understanding, an age when getting out means it’s time for that great mystery game called: “where’s my glasses?” – that usually takes the entire morning to finish. I am now officially a classic – like a vintage car running around with its funny sounds gurgling from God knows where; like that big ancient mango tree my father-in-law planted in their backyard. Seventy seems like a bizarre psychological frontier; you are old enough to know better, and finally old enough not to care if anyone thinks otherwise. And oh by the way, there are perks I love to brandish around as a ‘vintage’ citizen too!

The journey here has been a blur of decades, each with its own peculiar flavor. At ten, I was trying to figure out how to get out of the house without my mom knowing. At twenty, I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of the Academy without the authorities knowing. At thirty, I was trying to figure out how to get out of the house without my wife knowing. At forty, I was trying to figure out how to get out of the house without the dogs knowing. At fifty, I was trying to figure out simply how to get out of the house. Period. Full stop. Now at seventy, I’m trying to figure out why I have to get out of the house in the first place. Yup, I sometimes ask myself: What was that again that I needed to go out for?

The tens were a frantic scramble to figure out who I was, where I belonged. The twenties were a busy period as a young Army officer, figuring how to survive mostly in the jungles of Mindanao. The thirties were the ‘heavy lifting’ years – a whirlwind of career ladders, new family matters and the balancing act between them.

By the forties, there’s a new realization and an inner panic setting in. This was the era of the mid-life crisis, when I realized I could no longer run with the younger guys; when I witnessed the demise of that old favorite typewriter and the rise of the early computers. The fifties brought a strange, quiet dignity; the kids leaving the nest, and for the first time in thirty years, the refrigerator wasn’t a war zone. The sixties were a decade of “Seniority,” a gentle ramp-up where I started relishing the art of the afternoon nap; and when I developed a passionate, borderline obsessive interest in going back to writing. About almost anything. Even about nothing. Just needed to grunt about something.

Now that I have officially breached the gates of seventy, I’ve discovered there are actually some magnificent perks to being a septuagenarian. (Say that again? Such a long word. I should write that down. I will have problems remembering that soon enough.) For starters, although I started to get this long before when I reached ‘senior’ year, I just received a birthday cake from my favorite city, Taguig. And some cash to boot. They give us free entrance to the moviehouse on Tuesdays too. There is also the truly well-intentioned ‘Senior Discount’, which I flaunt like a trump card. I will gladly endure the cashier’s pitying look if it saves me twenty pesos on a cup of coffee. And of course, the ‘Senior Lane’ which allows me to go ahead of everybody on the long queues at the ticket windows or the pay stations.

Another great advantage is the “Oldies’ Forgetfulness” convenient excuse. People are more patient and understanding when I forget a name, a date, or why I walked into the kitchen. Also, people don’t get mad if they see me grumbling. They humor the old man who they think is slowly going nuts. Sometimes too, I try to feign ignorance about my debts. Getting quite good at it too. It has become my favorite item to easily forget. Also, I have reached the age where nightcaps are no longer about after-party enders, but about the need to get up to use the bathroom before sunrise. At least twice.

But beneath the creaking joints and the senior jokes, there is a deeper, more profound truth. Seventy years is a lot of life to carry, and the weight of it actually feels quite good. If there is one lesson I have learned from all the excitement of seven decades, it is this: try not to spend your time looking for the perfect moment to be happy. Life can be messy and loud and ridiculous at times; it can also be peaceful and quiet at times. So enjoy yourself, and be at peace. With the people around you, and most especially, with yourself. At seventy, I’ve learned that a cold beer, a warm breeze, and a good laugh are worth more than any recognition or trophy I ever chased in my youth. Be kind to your body, but be even kinder to your spirit – because while the mirror might show a few more wrinkles, the soul doesn’t count them, or even how many birthdays you have under your belt.

One time I was driving home when my phone rang. I picked up the phone, and saw it was the wife calling. “Where are you?”, she asked, rather annoyingly. I revved the engine, preparing for a faster ride home; and gave her a firm, reassuring reply: “Not to worry, my dear. I’m almost home.” A brief silence. Then she barked: “So why did you leave me here at the mall?”

I just turned 70. Feeling like 50. Dreaming I’m 30. Acting like 10 still, at times.

For a closer look, just click on the pics.