The Prime of Miss Lori and FB Friends

Part 1: Oh, no! Not My ID!

Probably Trump’s greatest contribution to the sociological and psychological evolution of homo sapiens is his showing that  self-promotion without guilt or feeling goosebumps can catapult you to heights, even all the way  to the highest post in the most powerful country in the world.  Following his narcissistic lead then and my new path to a more “evolved” homo sapiens in this regime,   I have written this first part of two parts of this blog as an ode to my most favorite person in this planet: me. We’ll talk about the second part in my next blog but first, let’s talk about me. Hey,  just for fun.

If you love me,  you would read on.  If you’re not sure of what to think and feel,  maybe you can endure reading the whole thing just out of curiosity.  If  you couldn’t care less and would rather wisely use your time on making more money,  no hurt feelings here, just skip this and see you in my next blog.  If you’re beginning to throw up,  gooooo!

You’re sticking around? Then,  enjoy the ride. You see, it’s now or never.  I have to publish this now , November 7, 2017 at 7:45 PM because I’ll soon be celebrating my birthday next month and as I continue to keep on pushing 70  next year, the pull of gravity might have finally already won over me.

Thanks to Facebook,  I have become more conscious of how I look both in person and in print.  On a good day  (after a deep, uninterrupted sleep, or on a sunset with its afterglow, or while listening to Bruno Mars or after a race with my grandson or on weekends when I have  lots of time to  generously cover  my face with moisturizer and tiny slaps of Smashbox Glow on my cheeks), my wrinkles seem to vanish and my complexion acquires that flush that makes my pictures look like they’re photo-shopped.

On one of those days,  a good friend  posted pictures she took of me.  Soon “likes” rained and I received compliments from my  nieces and nephews (who else?) whom I used to nanny when they were toddlers and tutor when they were in grade school and from friends whom I helped to find either good jobs or husbands. They all seemed to have chimed in chorus  “You look so youthful.”

Photo by Emily Kolbrener

I  drooled over the kind words before my husband who, unfortunately,  cannot use make up to cover his wrinkles because it is against his gender.  So,  his only chance to not envy me is usually to teasingly pluck me out of my world of delusions and pull me back to earth. This time, he offered his unsolicited explanation of the compliment. He said: “What it really means is that you look young even though you’re actually very old.” Ouch! That hurt! I had to pinch him a teeny weeny pinch with my sharpest nails to get even.

Recovering from the hubby’s painful reality check,  I gathered back the scattered pieces of my broken ego and defiantly gave myself affirmation:  “…at least I look young.” Then I winked at my image  in the mirror  under flattering yellow lights while I happily thanked my fairy godmother.  I thought she’s done a great job  doing overtime to make me look like a college senior still (I’d like to think) while I’m already in my AARP-overqualified senior  year.

Erick,  my second son, gave me a flattering birthday gift last December when he said that in his career ,  he has seen sexagenarians but no one looks as great as I do. Said like a loyal son.  But then as I thought deeply, he’s an ER nurse,  so doesn’t that make me the best-looking among sick and pale sextagenraians he’s seen?  It’s all right,   I still take that,  my loving son.

 

In my office,  the yellow overhead lights  also somehow give my skin a soft glow and its faint shadows reduce my pores.  Thanks, too, to the gene in me of Asian women  who seem to have loosed themselves from the pull of gravity, I swear I look like I’m only in my late thirties under those yellow lights, or I’d like to imagine anyway. That was probably what a middle-aged  adjuster guessed –or imagined– my age was  when he saw me walk past the waiting room where he sat. When I settled at my desk,  I used my peripheral vision to see what he was doing while waiting for me to call him in.  He ran his fingers through his hair,  then he fixed his collar and pressed his necktie in place against his chest.

Photo from Gustavo “Bong” Guerrero’s album

It helps that my first son,  Charles, does not look his age and so  I can hide mineI

 

When he stood,  he arched his back like a peacock, a sure sign according to psychologists that hmm he was trying to look nice before someone he found attractive enough  to also want to attract.  Or, was it again just my imagination ?

Anyway, after the introductions,  he said that his interview of me could be used as an important legal document for a case he was working on, so could he please ask for my ID? Hmm, I gave him an A for creativity in coming up with that business-like line to ask for a woman’s age without showing disrespect.

So, I had to give him my ID?!!!  Darn. There was nothing my fairy godmother could  do to hide the truth.  I gingerly handed the adjuster my ID which took a year for me to find in my purse. He held it and, probably finding my year of birth, he let out an involuntary “Oh” accompanied by dilated pupils.

Then we both laughed not sure of the reason why we laughed.  Perhaps  he laughed because of the unexpected reality he discovered in my ID and  I laughed because as I anticipated,  he had a funny reaction to his discovery.

When I recounted the funny experience to my hubby while we were in bed that night,  he chuckled in delight.  For some sadistic reason, he loves it when things and people conspire to stop my ego from exploding and my head from swelling out of control.  Laughing,  he said: “Buti hindi n’ya binagsak sa mesa ang ID mo na parang may nahawakan s’yang mikrobyo.” (Good thing he didn’t drop your ID on the table as if he accidentally  held something with microbes!”) I said, “I would have killed him!” as I used my pillow to muffle hubby’s  hearty laughter until he almost died.

 

Photo by RG Reyes

I know my best friend reminded me that there’s a limit to looking young and we must begin to look elegant instead. But why is there a giant ribbon on my head?  In a recent formal photo-shoot with hubby Nes, I forgot to remove what I wore in a wacky photo session!  Hmm, I can’t seem to shake off  youthful fun and vice versa. 

 

At a busy clothing store on a weekend,   I found myself in a long queue to the cashier. I was in my haltered  pink top and white not-too-short shorts.  My shades were big enough to hide my slowly growing eyebags and I wore a headband that kept my hair in place and allowed strands of short hair to cover a deepening   wrinkle on my forehead. Big curls colored soft dark mahogany by God’s gift to baby boomers—the hair dye— brushed against  my shoulders to give me that carefree look.

A young store staff, fresh from his break,  opened a cash register and called me, “Miss,  I can help you.”  Thankfully, I left the line and gave the young man the clothes I was purchasing. As he removed the security pins from the clothes,  he turned on his charm as he said the canned, “Did you find everything you need,  Miss?” I kinda tilted my head to the side and  purred a “Yes” to match his sweetness.

Then he asked holding my VISA card.  “Are you paying debit or credit?”

I said “Debit.”

Then he asked: “May I see your ID?”  Fairy godmother! What the ….?   I knew cashiers in that department store ask for an ID only when the customer is buying on credit! I was buying on debit–good as cash! Young man,  what are you trying to find out???

As he studied my ID,  he sort of paused, looked over his right shoulder and seemed to have inhaled deeply.  He was probably thinking:  “God, forgive me.   I was hitting on a woman older than  my mother! ”

Then as he handed me back my ID and the bag of clothes I bought, he said,  “Okey,  Ma’am,  you’re all set!”

From sweet “Miss”  to  respectful “Ma’am!” The transition, though out of kindness,  was a knife slicing through my chest.  I sensed the veil of illusion  lifted and there I stood,  braving the sudden confrontation with aging me.  Suddenly I saw, cruelly exposed,   my cellulites, stretch marks and sagging breasts.  I thought I did not need that kind of respect which only  reminded me of something I have physically irrevocably lost.  I  remember then what my funny but insightful best friend, Lourdes “Odette” Lacuna,  jokingly asked when we were pining for our lost youth: “Where are those guys who disrespected us by whistling like wolves whenever we passed by? I kinda miss being disrespected that way now.”

Alas,  those times  are now  a distant memory,  as Jurassic as the glory -that -was-Greece-the-grandeur-that-was-Rome kind of past.

We can now feel the Autumn chill figuratively  and literally  piercing our arthritic bones and making what used to be  candle-shaped fingers already looking like crabs’ legs. Thoughts of mortality creep up in our beginning-to-be foggy brains as Forest Lawn and cremation  also slowly begin to creep  up in our conversations.

We console ourselves with words like “age and wrinkles do not define me.” But knowing that we have gained in wisdom with the years offers  faint consolation. If asked to choose between wisdom and youth, in a heartbeat,  I’d choose both!

Odette’s late Dad,  our equally funny and wise “Papang Elias Lacuna,  said it succintly when, in my late twenties, I told him how I envied him for being retired and could already do as he pleased. He looked me in the eye and said seriously:  “If you like,  we can trade places.”

Meantime, why dwell on those dark thoughts when we can still savor and celebrate  the last few lingering illusions of youth?

I joyfully recall then with shameless titillation (hey,  I’m not perfect!)  that recent Sunday morning when hubby and I walked in our church and  our  Eucharistic Minister leader, Greg Snyder,  teasingly asked him, while looking at me:  “Why did you bring your daughter along with you today?

With St. Jane Frances de Chantal Eucharistic Ministry leaders Greg Snyder (left)

and Jim Petrini (right).:  “Looking youthful is a blessing.”

Another Eucharistic man, Jim Petrini, chimed in and told me::  There are those who look older every year, you’re an expert in looking  younger.” (I have named them with their permission –with pictures to boot –as evidence that these incidents are not just my fairy godmother’s  tales.)

Greg seriously reminded me:  “Looking youthful is a blessing.”  I thanked him for the precious reminder.

Those remarks are  music to my ears nowadays when I still try to  “rage against the dying of the light” even as I careen to the age of  irrelevance and obscurity.

“When holy men speak,  you better believe,”  I whispered smiling naughtily to my hubby as we sat on the pew.

Raising his hands as his defenses got demolished by the holy men,  the hubby gave in:  “Okey,  you win.”

As the priest entered,  he  whispered while leaning close to me:

” ‘Just pray they won’t ask for your ID.”

Next blog:  Part 2:  Secrets of Staying Youthful From FB Friends