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.