Firty Fwee

At the gym this morning, when the treadmill asked me to enter my age, for the first time, I entered: 33.

This age is going to be slightly problematic. Staying in a hotel on a business trip abroad some years back, I had contacted the laundry service to ask for some help; asked what room I was in, I replied: “Firty firty fwee”.

“I’m sorry?” asked the voice on the other end of the line.

Sigh. I had to repeat "3033" around three times more, very slowly, before they finally got it. Good luck to me whenever someone asks my age from now until March 5, 2012. Looks like I'll be swallowing my pride, cranking up the Pinoy-ness, and saying: “Terrty trree.”

But a lisp and a weak “r” sound are the least of my concerns. More than that -- it’s not hard to feel old.

When I was 11, the age I would tape beauty pageants on Betamax and watch them over and over again, I would always look at Miss Teen USA 1989, Idaho’s 18-year-old Brandi Sherwood, and think: she’s 18, she’s so old.

And when I was 24 and working in Globe’s Cebu office, a youthful-looking manager who was new to the team became a good friend. And when he told me he was 32 (I guessed when I met him that he was 26, at most), I was shocked, thinking, wow, I never thought I could be friends with someone so old.

But, every year for the past few years, new celebrities have emerged, seemingly getting younger and younger every year as my age pulls away from theirs. With that, and watching shows like American Idol and Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model, where you have 16-year-old contestants and winners, I can’t help but think to myself, good Lord, these are such kids.

And closer to home, every year for the past few years, the people around me have gotten younger and younger as well. Fresh graduates join P&G, people several batches below me join Hangad, and we hang out together, and I wonder if they think of me, as I thought of my Globe colleague 9 years ago, wow, I never thought I could be friends with someone so old.

Over lunch with the family at Bizu today, Tatay, seated on my left, asked: “Wasn’t Jesus 33 when he revealed himself publicly?”

I said: “No, he was 33 when he died.”

Jo-Ed, seated to my right, said nonchalantly: “Alexander the Great died at 33, shortly after he united Persia.”

It’s not unlike officemates nine years younger than me who, being competitive overachievers, have advanced so fast that they now outrank me. Or who, at the age when I was thrilled to have my first credit card, already own a car and a condo. Or friends from Hangad, eight years younger than me, getting married.

While here I am, at 33, starting over. Single. Starting out in a new field, on a new career. Going back to school, and corollarily, having to learn new stuff and take up a student’s life. (That is, if I don’t drive my car off Guadalupe Bridge into Pasig River if the Berklee admission decision on March 31 isn’t quite what I’d hoped.)

But do I hate being 33? Hell, no.

I love the clarity, wisdom, and patience that all these years have brought. With age, you learn that a cool car and a whopping paycheck don’t make up for a frustrating job in a frustrating company. You come to terms with who you are and who you’re not, with what you’re good at and what you’re better off not doing. You learn that growing older doesn't mean letting go of your sense of wonder and playfulness. You learn that nothing is ever worthwhile that you didn’t have to work your ass off for. You learn that mistakes are a part of life, and they’re not the end of the world. You’ll learn that there are just things you can’t control. You learn to stop comparing and competing with the people around you, in terms of what you have and what you’ve done, and to form your own set of things that matter and go for them.

You learn to value what’s right over what’s easy or what’s convenient, because you learn to value character. You learn to cherish true friends, the ones you’ll care to be there for, and who’ll care to be there for you too. You’ll learn that there’s nothing more powerful than respect, gratitude, and a sense of humor. You’ll learn that everything happens for a reason, even if it’s not always readily apparent. You learn that the thing you truly want to do will never leave you be until you do it. And the list of things that you once just rolled your eyes at in self-help books, and forwarded text messages, and inspirational talks—but which turned out to be so freaking true—goes on and on.

This morning on the treadmill, with four minutes to go in my run and with my just-turned-33-years-old, sleep-deprived, semi-hung-over body about to give up, my iPod suddenly started playing “Defying Gravity”. Not the dialogue-marred version from the musical, not the sissy cover from Glee, but Kerry Ellis’ rocked-out recording, complete with crashing drums, pounding bass, furious guitars, and soaring strings. And as the whole arrangement picked up, I increased my speed from 10 km/h, to 10.5, to 11, all the way up to 12.5 km/h, gloriously unrestrained in the first few hours of my 33^rd year on earth.

And now, the day comes to an end. As one who has always put importance on having a meaningful birthday, I had been stressing over this being my first James-less birthday in 14 years (even if we had broken up last year, he still threw me a party in his house in Cebu, with Hangad which was there for Nic’s and Mia’s wedding) and my first Inay-less birthday ever (she flew to Las Vegas two weeks to be there during the last few days of a younger sister who finally succumbed to cancer).

But the day went well nonetheless. From turning 33 with Dennis on a rare trip to Malate; to a surprisingly great workout after just three hours of sleep; to lunch at my favorite restaurant with Tatay, Jo-Ed, Rebbie and the kids; to a visit to the spa for a long-overdue foot massage and body massage; to coffee and macadamia nut pie with Kenneth; to Mass at Christ the King for which I “accidentally” played the piano when I looked up at the loft and saw there wasn’t a choir; and, finally, to writing this.

"Happy birthday," goes a song by Singaporean singer-songwriter Corrinne May, "you're one year closer to who you were meant to be."

It’s going to be a damned good year.

My first ballet class

No, you are not going to see me in leotards and pointe shoes any time soon. Given my figure, that would be downright vulgar. Besides, my Billy Elliott dream was dashed 28 years ago, when I asked Inay if I could study ballet along with my female cousins, and she gave a response of uncharacteristic small-mindedness and prejudice, which to this day I am shocked came from her, and which I am certain she will never admit to saying:

“Hwag, baka maging bakla ka.”

I wonder if, looking back, she wishes she had just let me take those ballet lessons. I turned out gay without them anyway; and at least I wouldn’t be the painfully awkward dancer I am at every party, night-out, or Hangad concert today.

Anyway, I digress. Going back—this “first ballet class” was thanks to the thoughtfulness and generosity of my officemate and friend Nicole,

who was a company member of Lisa Macuja’s Ballet Manila throughout high school. (This was after she was a classical concert pianist who performed in New York, and before she became DLSU student council president and one of the Ten Outstanding Students of the Philippines in her graduating class. Where’s the fairness in that, eh?)

A few months back, Nicole went back to dancing with her old school, Academy One in Sucat, just for fun. And a few weeks back, after reading my “Storytelling” post, in which I giddily heralded my impending life as an impoverished music student earning US$160 a week, at most, in a city where I’ll be paying at least US$900 a month in rent, Nicole suggested: “How about becoming a ballet pianist?”

A ballet pianist, Nicole explained, is simply someone who plays the piano to accompany the dancers during a ballet class. My initial misgiving was that I don’t play classical music. Nicole explained that the music isn’t necessarily classical. However, it doesn’t mean playing just anything either. Rather, it requires knowledge of the flow of the class, understanding of the art form, sensitivity to a dancer’s movement, and t

echnical mastery of tempo and cadence. Ballet pianists today are a rare breed, Nicole said, so most dance studios resort to recorded music for class; but where ballet pianists do exist, they are highly valued and—most importantly for someone who’ll be living la pauvre vie Boheme—highly paid.

So, last Friday night, I drove to Sucat after work to observe my first ballet class.

I loved the experience immensely.

As I mentioned in my New York travel blog, I enjoy ballet a lot. As a kid, Inay would regularly take me to Ballet Philippines’ prouctions of Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, and Nutcracker, as well as “kiddie” ballet versions of Peter Pan and Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Decades later, when Olay, which I was managing, was asked by Ballet Philippines to sponsor their 2008 season gala, I was only too happy to go to the event. When my niece and goddaughter Audrey took ballet lessons two years ago

, I was much more excited than she was. And when I visited New York last month, watching Swan Lake by the NYC Ballet more than made up for my totally off-character decision to not catch any Broadway show.

The corps de ballet of the NYC Ballet's Swan Lake. How can you not fall in love with a vision like that?!

Again, I’m no dancer. Neither am I any connoisseur of ballet, having seen only a few shows, and not even knowing the French terms. But all this time, I have admired and adored ballet for its discipline, its elegance, its precision, and its ability to entrance; for the way it shifts from proud and powerful one moment, to delicate and demure the next, in its mission to tell a story or flesh out a character; for the way it paradoxically puts supreme effort into seeming effortless; and for the amazing weightlessness and fluidity that it shows the human body can achieve.

And what I loved about Nicole’s class was, for the first time, I got an up-close-and-personal peek at the behind-the-scenes of every show, the back-story of every ballet dancer. I loved watching the exercises, from seemingly simple squats and stretches at the bar, to series of jumps that spanned from one end of the room to the other—which, Nicole said, even principal dancers in the world’s top ballet companies do, just to keep in shape. I loved seeing leaps and pirouettes that didn’t land quite right, not because I wanted to be mean, but because it showed the amount of practice that went into a single spin, humanizing the divinity one witnesses on stage. I loved the way everyone in class could execute the same 16-bar routine from a simple series of verbal instructions mostly in French, sans counting or demonstrations, repeated only twice by the teacher. And when Gigay, one of Nicole’s fellow senior dancers, and her teacher, Jeff, did a pas de deux from Sleeping Beauty, I was mesmerized.

Some clips from Nicole's class at Academy One last Friday, March 4. Nicole is the dancer in blue. : )

So, more than the potential to earn money, I’m hugely grateful for this opportunity to finally get involved with this art form I’ve always loved. It will take practice—I’ll have to overcome my abuse of the sustain pedal, my love for rubatos, and my compulsion to add 7ths and 9ths to every chord I play—but at least, even if I my career as a ballet pianist doesn’t fly, at least I’ll have become a more disciplined pianist, and I’ll have had my taste of the world of ballet too.