Fifty and Fierce!

What happens when midlifers party? The earth moves, quite literally. When we do work hard enough to disinhibit our jaded selves from truly having fun, our expanded girths and our inflated body masses shake the ground.

Last night, prime suspect, Jun Del, celebrated his 50th with his closest and dearest and threw a party like nobody else has--actually getting some ageing, creaky joints to boogie on down. After a gourmet dinner courtesy of Mrs. Prime Suspect, Gail (a degustation of crab fat risotto, ceviche, Belgian fondue, moules frites, and a main plate of roast lamb and three types of flavored mashed potatoes: truffle oil, pimiento, and wasabi, all made from scratch, without the aid of recipes, and completely by herself. Whew! She is our beloved overachiever), the dancing started.

I don't recall exactly how. As far as I know, getting midlifers on the dance floor is as difficult as finding Osama Bin Laden. But someone played some Eighties dance music and then someone else said, "Let's Dance!" But I believe it was the ebullient Allan A. who retorted, "Dance? How? The old way of clapping, snapping fingers, and puckering the mouth?" This elicited the laughter necessary to kick the party spirit into gear. Before we knew it, there was dancing--a healthy show of wild abandon from fellows who toil hard to support themselves and their families and who, in their personal capacity, try to change something in the world. There might be nothing quite as liberating as raising one's arms and moving one's body to music, as in dance. Because when one does, negative emotions, and inhibitions simply fall away, de facto. It becomes more meaningful when older people do this because it is almost second nature for the young ones to be carefree and uninhibited. The older generation needs much prodding and an altered state of mind to do so. Most of the time, some good liquor helps.

Last night, it was definitely that plus the sanctuary provided by the company of friends. In other words, walang tawanan! Of course the best male dancer was the celebrant--so freaking coordinated. And the revelation among revelations was chef Nikki, who definitely had the moves. It is extremely rare to see a big man--over six feet tall and with a kilometric shoulder span like a pro ball linebacker's--to have as much grace as he does. Among the ladies, Marivi's shoulder shimmy, is the sexiest, fiercest move, this side of the Pacific. Margot, on the other hand, was the life of the party, and burned that dance floor as though the world were ending in the succeeding minutes. Ageless, flawless Tweety, was the eye candy on the dance floor and my man, JP, totally smoked the others out with his killer moves! But the coup de grace was from little suspect, Anton, who left the older generation speechless, when he finally came on to strut. This young man speaks with his body and he has a lot to say.

So did we have fun? I have the achy bones and muscles to show for it.

To the celebrant, I dedicate a passage from the great Ralph Waldo Emerson:

"To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch...to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded!"

Happy 5-0!

BOO--Gotcha!

I had lunch last week with two dear friends who I have known for ages. The conversation veered toward the subject of middle age and its pitfalls. The name of Dr. Christiane Northrup was mentioned. Her second book, The Wisdom of Menopause, apparently has changed the lives of millions of women in the world.

I became curious so I looked it up and decided to buy a copy for myself for advance reading. I'm a girl scout in this sense, although my kids call it something else--paranoia! I like making use of that heads-up advantage to forearm myself against that much-dreaded period in a woman's life--menopause! I also find that not many women like to talk about it because, yes, I've been asking around for useful information and have gotten the cold shoulder if not utter shock at my straightforwardness.

Anyway, I went to Powerbooks and how does one find a needle in a haystack? I headed straight to customer service where a throng of customers was assembled. When it was my turn, the clerk asked, "Ano pong hanap nyo, ma'am?" And I answered, "The Wisdom of Menopause by Dr. Christiane Northrup." Of course, all heads snapped to my direction. Haaay, only in da Pilipins...

People stared. They always do. It's as if they have found that forbidden window into someone's intimate life, like BOO--gotcha! Try buying birth control pills in Mercury, you'll get the same reaction. Worse, what if it's a pregnancy test kit you need? Even if you were legitimately married, there's that uneasiness of being judged, of somebody else thinking: ooops! you mean you actually have sex? I think about all those poor boys who are scared shitless of crawling with their tails between their legs into Mercury to ask for condoms. Considering that they are being safe and careful and doing themselves and their partners a big service, they'll have to endure the embarrassment of procuring the most basic health implement in the world, which in other countries is considered commendable, not shameful. I wonder if things will get better when my son comes of age.

Anyway, here's some literature on Dr. Northrup's book and a link to her website, in case you're interested.

What would your life be like if you learned how to respect your body as though it were a precious creation—as valuable as a beloved friend? What if you no longer lived in fear of germs or cancer? What would happen if you truly trusted your body’s messages?

Noted author and visionary Dr. Christiane Northrup asks us to ponder these questions because she finds that lasting health and wholeness are only possible when we discover and practice behaviors associated with true health and wholeness. Dr. Northrup believes that the time to listen to our body’s wisdom is now!

“Once you engage your own inner wisdom, you can change or improve your habits of thought, your emotions, and your behaviors . . . and create a more positive and joyful life experience right away,” Dr. Northrup says. “This process, when engaged in regularly, heals both your present and your future.”

Dr. Northrup wrote her second New York Times bestseller, The Wisdom of Menopause: Creating Physical and Emotional Health and Healing During the Change (Bantam). In this breakthrough book, she unearths new revelations about menopause, refutes the stereotypic definition as a frenzy of hot flashes and hormonal mood swings, and instead proves that it is a powerful , hormonally supported opportunity to rejuvenate your body, mind, and spirit on all levels. Over 1 million copies of this gutsy work have been translated into 15 languages.

Entertaining with Ease

Is there such a thing as entertaining with ease? I used to think so. Back in the day, when I had as much enthusiasm as Rachel Ray on double doses of Prozac and as much energy as Carson Kressley on speed, I orchestrated parties and did everything from scratch. I made my own puff pastry, whipped up my own mayo, hand-kneaded my own dough for fresh pasta and shaped them with a hand-cranked machine. I made my own sorbet to serve between courses and baked elaborate layer cakes with piped borders. I fashioned my own table centerpieces with flowers from the Dangwa, fruits from Farmers, dried beans from grain sheds, or random leaves picked by the roadside. Yes, I was a martyr then.

I did enjoy it all, in spite of the fatigue that typically set in right about the time guests started filing in and I would be just stepping out of the shower, scrambling downstairs with only one earring on, and with the other shoe unfastened, still.

That was all good but Cruella de Ville, who was always present, never failed to unleash her satanic verses for all to hear. "Your roast is burnt and it's your fault; so and so makes paella better than you; you spend too much on decor; your cooking is always salty; you should keep in mind your guests' health..." And so one day, I just stopped.

Today, I entertain only when I absolutely must, and only when I am certain that Cruella won't show up. I mostly order in for food and enlist the help of a good florist. My best friend, MK, introduced me to Vanni, a florist par excellence who charges very reasonable fees--you'll be surprised. He makes me wonder if he's only in it because of his devotion to the art and the therapeutic benefits of arranging, or if indeed, there is money to be made. That's how little he asks for.

I have compiled a list of suppliers for uber Delicious party dishes; their's and Vanni's are the numbers that are on my speed dial. Along with the modern woman's hairdresser, manicurist, waxer, and dermatologist, these are the numbers that are worth their weight in gold. Like they say, "It takes a village"...to keep a middle-aged woman sane!

Last night's poetry reading party at MK's was a showcase of Vanni's genius and Bizu's outstanding cuisine.

Three, Two, One...Surprise!

I had attended a birthday party recently for a cousin-in-law, Marilu who had turned 50. She, of the gregarious, doting, larger-than-life personality, whom everyone simply adores, expected to spend it like she has always had her past birthdays—a quiet dinner at home with family and friends.
Meanwhile, Jojo, her husband, had something radically different in mind. He, of the dignified, self-effacing, reserved nature, was clandestinely cooking up something of grandiose proportions to celebrate the wife’s big 5-0. We had all received requests via text message to save the date with a promise of details to follow. He was smart enough to inform his wife that he was indeed planning a surprise party for her because given the potency of the grape-vine phenomenon in our society, she would have found out for herself very soon. But he did keep all the other details under wraps. He bore the burden of disclosing the time and venue so we all knew we had to be at the Rizal Ballroom of the Makati Shangri-la at that appointed day and time.
I expressed some concern over how the preparations might turn out because what would a man know about décor, invites, menus, and give-aways. I half-expected to receive generic birthday invitations printed with balloons and confetti in front and the what, when, and where words written on the flip-side. Horrors! Or fiesta buntings and a plastic flower-bedecked ballroom; a dinner menu of 20 different ways with beef perhaps; or even chocolate gold coin-filled goodie bags. Yikes!
But no; there was none of that. In fact, a tastefully-done, matte gold and cabernet invitation was delivered to the house with a heart-felt personal message from Jojo and their three children. That alone should have prepared me for the tour-de-force that he had labored over for Marilu’s birthday.
Several days prior to the event, he had the smarts to send her off to Baguio, supposedly for some R and R but also to whisk her away from the center of celebrations where the over-zealousness of everyone involved started to threaten the secrecy of the planning process.
And so on the evening itself, armed only with the only piece of information that Jojo was willing to share with her—that three big surprises lay in store—Marilu got in the car which took her to the Shangri-la hotel. Surprise of all surprises, the big party was going to be in her favorite hotel!
As she entered the dark, cavernous ballroom, a lone spotlight sprung to life and focused on her every move. Shrieks from the guests, birthday greeting shout-outs, tears, and applause. She probably didn’t notice how spectacular the room was, filled to the rafters with her favorite flowers—potted orchids everywhere—on tables, on the aisles, in quiet corners, and all over the stage. The plants doubled as give-aways and were distributed to the guests at the end of the evening. How clever of Jojo, I thought, decor and give-away in one!
After the initial frenzy, a collective hush descended upon the room as the pianist played the first strains of an unfamiliar song. Quiet and self-effacing Jojo sauntered in, microphone in hand, singing something he had written especially for her on that occasion. There were, as expected, more tears and more sighs especially from the ladies in the audience, who, because of the zero-romanticism in this jaded, postmodern, and postfeminist era, were clearly blindsided and overwhelmed by this man’s grand gesture in honoring his wife.
When the song ended, a cell phone rang, which then caught everybody’s attention. The gentleman host of the evening’s proceedings rushed over to the celebrant to say that her only sister, Connie, who is based in Los Angeles, wanted to greet her over the phone—predictably so, the guests all thought. They put the call on speaker phone for all to hear but the connection was full of static, the conversation between sisters, inaudible. And then, of a sudden, the sister’s voice from the other end, became clearer, stronger, and much closer, like it was coming from somewhere among the audience. And indeed, it was! There was Connie in the flesh, standing up from one of the tables, flown in from Los Angeles the night before by Jojo for her big day. She was stunned, speechless, and spinning in extreme joy and surprise.
The merriment continued. There was dancing and singing and much eating and drinking. But everyone waited with bated breath for the third surprise that Jojo had earlier announced. At the end of the evening, when the time for the big reveal came as a fitting finale, he walked over to his wife and turned her sideways to face one corner of the ballroom while several waiters slid open the accordion doors that divided the large ballroom into smaller areas. He then raised his hand in the air for all to see and showed his wife car keys to her new car, which was, as he spoke, slowly being showcased as the final partition fell out of view. It was a spanking white BMW!
At first she couldn’t comprehend what was going on—the spotlights, the screaming from the audience, keys dangling from her husband’s hand, doors opening, people shouting, “Car!” She was dumbfounded, confused even, until slowly, it sunk in, that indeed, her husband was handing her keys to a new car. “Aaaaaaahhhhh!” was her reaction—complete with a gaping mouth and glaring eyes! I truly thought she was going have a coronary. Thank heavens she came to, almost immediately, promptly falling into her husband’s arms in a heap of tears, excitement, disbelief, and profound happiness.
There was no dry eye in the ballroom that night. Well, expect the men’s, of course, who couldn’t take their eyes off of the BMW, while all the ladies were fixated on the embracing couple, married for more than 20 years and who were, at that specific moment, in the cradle of bliss and affection.
A lady guest seated right beside us in the table lovingly turned to her husband and audibly said, “Ako, kahit na Honda CRV okay na sa akin.” To which the husband replied, “Kiss na lang.”
I would like to say that it was not the big party at the Shangri-la, nor was it the sending for the wife’s sister all the way from L.A., nor was it the BMW, but of course, no one would believe me. It sure helped; in a major way!
But much more than the material things, it was truly the thought, the time, and the effort—the whole exercise of pulling off a surprise—that made the difference, considering that husbands nowadays can’t even be blackmailed into taking the wife out to dinner. Also, he could have just opted for the lazy and stress-free route by taking her to the car dealership to choose whatever car she wanted. He could have just taken her out to dinner or asked her to cook and invite family and friends. But it was the fact that he took a lot of time off from work and poured himself over all the nitty-gritty of conceptualizing the entire celebration, which showed how important she is to him, how much he thinks she deserves it, and how great his love for her is. Marilu deserved every bit of it and even more!
Gentlemen, your present to your beloved could be as grand as a month-long surprise trip to Africa or as humble as a picnic of fish balls on the grounds of Luneta, but the operative word here is “surprise.” All women are suckers for surprises, no matter how small and inconsequential to your thinking. So, surprise her, then sit and watch how much mileage it earns you. Prepare to be blown away!

Old Bones

I arrived yesterday from Kota Kinabalu and woke up completely fatigued. Getting up from bed today took what little strength I seemed to have left. Every joint ached; my back, expecially, was sore for some unknown reason. This only happens when I run on the treadmill for five kilometers, 40 minutes max, which is my top speed (pathetic, I know!), or if I run over eight kilometers at 8 kph. I did no running at all in KK so I was momentarily puzzled as to what might have triggered the backache.
Then, like a light bulb switched on in my mind, I remembered that since we didn't bring a yaya, I had to bathe my 6-year-old every day and wash her up after she did her business in the bathroom. This involved a lot of stooping for extended periods of time.
Ah, middleage...it literally is a pain!

Midlife Is Boring; Not!

Unwanted things started happening to my body when I turned forty. For unknown reasons, my joints began creaking each time I woke up in the morning and lumbered out of bed. It was as though they had been dislocated in my sleep and were therefore trying to inch back into their proper grooves. It took some amount of stretching, bending, and grunting to get my circulation running, my muscles warmed up, and my spine realigned. My body has since turned into something of a diesel engine—hard starting.

Gradually, I had to refrain from the strenuous activities I once truly enjoyed: Ashtanga yoga, singles tennis, flag football, Krav Maga (Israeli self defense) and Muay Thai (Thai kickboxing). I ignored it at first—the almost imperceptible time delay between the brain’s command and the body’s reaction. But in martial arts, a fraction of a second’s delay could mean a bloody nose or a cut lip. This slowing down of reflexes, once caused my upper lip to blossom into a cauliflower during boxing practice courtesy of an over zealous sparring partner. The liver lips made me look like a silicon-filled mouth that sprouted a head so pride eventually gave way to vanity. After that, I disengaged from all sport and turned to baking for solace. One night, when all but the kitchen lights were off, I scampered downstairs to the oven, preoccupied by the cake that needed to be retrieved as soon as the timer burst into a ring. I missed a step, tumbled over and down five more rungs, and badly sprained an ankle. There wasn’t any real obstacle that may have caused the fall—only myself; as my brother said, “walang kalaban.”

These days, I limit myself to sparring only with books, while sprawled on my bed, protected by fluffy pillows. Baking has been abandoned for less physically demanding activities such as internet surfing.

On a recent trip to Vancouver, British Columbia, I was quite content to be cloistered indoors, shut off from the four-degree outdoor temperature and the howling winds. I burrowed under the duvet with Orhan Pamuk’s latest novel and was truly looking forward to spending the next several days in the exact same state, horizontal and undisturbed.

An extreme outdoor adventure was therefore farthest from my mind but the relentless cajoling of my brother-in-law and his wife, weekend warriors and adrenalin junkies both was too much to bear. You see, their tandem, quite known in the sporting circles of Manila, is a formidable husband-wife duo of triathletes, dive masters, underwater hockey players, wake boarders and yes, alpine skiers. I, on the other hand, am none of the above. And because they had posed a challenge to my middle-aged, floundering ego, it was too late when I realized that I had compromised myself. All I could do was hope that by osmosis—in the many years that I had spent with them—some of their spunk had rubbed off on me. I’m an adherent of the trickle down effect, I’ll have you know. If their 14 and 12-year-old daughters can do it, I should be able to as well; or so I thought.

I geared up in an over-sized relic of a ski suit—some plus-sized person’s discard—which we had found in a box in the basement. With a good helping of delusion, I went with them to Blackcomb Mountain in Whistler Valley and took my 11-year-old daughter and 9-year-old son along for the ride, “to share in the fun and excitement,” I told everyone. But in truth and fact, I just didn’t want to be the only novice. Don’t tell.

In the punishing cold, we took the ski gondola to mid-mountain, Excalibur, level. The first sight of the snow-blanketed surface—pristine white with a slight tinge of blue from sunlight filtered through migrant clouds—was so inviting. Plus, the practice bunny slope for beginners, no more than a bump on the ground, posed no threat whatsoever. So I unleashed my middle-aged-body-on-skis upon that seemingly benign anthill and instantly, my limbs flew off in opposing directions: one leg taking off here; the other pushing back there; the right arm fighting for balance with the aid of a ski pole planted firmly on the ground; the left frantically signaling the closest warm body for help. The brain, sensing immediate danger, enforced code red upon the motor muscles to regain control but the middle-aged body, having a mind of its own, was irretrievably on free fall.

Thank heavens for middle-age spread; I am now testament that the human buttocks can take crushing blows. However, this same life-saving attribute interferes with getting up unassisted from a bad wipe-out position. The pull of gravity on a heavy rear end has magnetic properties that glue middle-aged people to the ground. I couldn’t get myself up. You laugh? Let’s see you do it!

After two hours worth of bunny slope practice I convinced myself that I had been transformed into Michaela Dorfmeister of Austria, Olympic alpine skiing gold medalist. My relatives declared that they had had enough of a warmup and were now ready to tackle monstrous Black Comb Mountain. I didn’t want to be the only adult left on that pathetic bunny hill with dozens of toddlers so I insisted to coming along. Plus, seeing my son and daughter comfortably tackling the slope boosted my self-confidence. In spite of the ski host’s firm pronouncement: “Beginners must stay on the bunny slope!” I had declared myself good and ready for an easy run down the mountain. Hah!

Armed with an iron will power and not much else, I took the ski lift up to Excelerator base hanging onto my nieces for dear life. Murphy must have had me in mind when he formulated all his theories. “Splattt,” was the sound of my rear end as it hit the flat ground on which I was supposed to alight, upright and effortlessly, like everyone else. Like an omen of things to come, that clumsy fall came to bear on the rest of the afternoon’s events.

Lunch was next on the agenda and the ski chalet where it was to be served was several moguls down an incline, which to me appeared like a white abyss. With the tips of my skis touching the lip of the drop, I peered down and saw not the bottom of the mountain but vignettes of my past in split second flashes. I broke into profuse sweat and was convinced that the layers of clothing under my fat suit were piled on one too many. Could it have been fear, you ask? No, not that; it was more like sheer terror. And so I said to myself, a la Bruce Willis in the movie, The Last Boy Scout, “I will not die today.”

Sure, I was set back several dollars for that Snow limo—a sled manually towed by the ski patrol, which services geriatric sightseers for a tour of the mountain. Geriatric sightseers in Blackcomb mountain—an oxymoron? And shouldn’t they just stay home and knit, watch the TV shopping network, or curl up in bed with a good book perhaps?

The ski limo delivered me to the doorstep of the chalet as though I were an 80-year-old invalid but hey, Brad Pitt wasn’t on the premises so who cares? A bowl of steaming hot chili topped with melted cheddar reignited my courage and since I wasn’t one to back down from the challenge of my children to ski the easiest route back, I did, or at least I attempted to.

The infinite patience of my sister-in-law is the reason I am still breathing, which means I didn’t disappear down some ravine, nor was I swallowed by snow-covered earth. But it was not without incident—I’m talking groin splitting slip-slides; feet-in-the-air butt flops; run-away-train-careening-down-the-slope-screaming-for-divine-intervention tumbles; and just plain snow-eating-bad-ass falls; you know, that sort. No big deal, really.

Many times I asked myself, “Why am I doing this again?” The answer to which was, “Why not?” There might not be a better time to try something new or do something adventurous. I’m definitely not waiting until I’m sixty. A badly bruised butt is not much collateral damage for the spiffy photos I had them take of me in complete ski regalia and in the perfect skier’s stance as proof that I had conquered Black Comb Mountain. They vowed not to tell anyone otherwise. I literally took a peek at life from the edge and it wasn’t half as bad as I had imagined. Midlife doesn’t have to be a surrender to everything safe and predictable. I don’t have to spend it cocooned in a duvet. True, my body ached for a week; I walked crouched and bow-legged like a cowboy with a thoroughbred still in between his thighs. But what was punishing to my body did wonders for my spirit. I now contemplate rappelling down a mountain next but not without the perfect outfit on. So first, to shop!

Skydiving in Sydney

We will all find ourselves, at some point or other, powerless and feeble during life-threatening situations. The lucky ones, who, as many say, have yet to settle a score with their maker—bad grass, being yet another term for it—have accidental brushes with death and live to tell. They do so because at that particular time and place some random person, whether kin or complete stranger, in an act of kindness and empathy, performs some Herculean task to spare them of an untimely exit.

But I speak here of voluntary self-exposure to high-risk, death-defying stunts that the world has now come to know as extreme sports.

Several months ago in Sydney, Australia, I chanced upon an advertisement collateral—a poster—at Franklin’s supermarket in Newtown between the frozen section and the house cleaning implements aisle, advertising tandem skydiving. It read: “See all of Sydney from the sky.” What arrested my eye was neither the campaign slogan nor the blurbs from famous celebrities who had tried it but the colorful red and gold jumpsuit of the male model and what remained visible of fine facial features under his protective goggles. Even more compelling was the fact that he was airborne and stuck to a skydiving instructor two times better looking than he was. Shucks, I thought, what a totally legit way for a middle-aged, married woman to be in full body contact with a drop-dead gorgeous man.

Okay, why the hell not, I reasoned with myself. I wouldn’t mind an aerial photo wearing the same groovy get-up with wind-blown hair pinned to a handsome, live prop. As the check-out cashier started ringing up my purchases, I remembered Leonardo da Vinci’s saying, which I had come across as a teen-ager: “When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you will always long to return.”

And so I did it. I called the number on the poster and faster than you can say “The quick brown fox…” I found myself in that very same spiffy, curve-enhancing, tummy-flattening, butt-augmenting jumpsuit at Woologong s Skydive Center an hour outside Sydney in 13 degrees below zero weather. My teeth were chattering both from the cold and the terror. For once, I stood motionless and speechless as I listened to a man briefing us on how to skydive off of a moving aircraft from 14,000 feet above ground, free-falling for 60 seconds, and then landing with knees firmly locked onto chest for an incident-free landing.

Guess what? The instructor was ten times better looking than the model on the poster—shoulder-length, layered hair, green eyes, an exotic European accent, and a physique to rival Daniel Craig’s as James Bond. This was the only thing that stopped me from making a mad dash out of there; there was no way I was backing out. Well alright, I had already prepaid a premium for the entire exercise, which was non-refundable so even if I were hyperventilating and on the verge of a panic attack, I persevered.

Midway into his spiel on safety procedures, several doubts and concerns barraged my typically female mind. No excuses here; such things are simply hard-wired into our psyche. Don’t we question everything just for the sake of it? But I bit my tongue and held my peace because I realized that if I pissed this man off he could easily unharness me in midair and claim equipment malfunction and that would be that.

I lived to tell because I made like a tree the whole time and followed everything he said with nary a peep. And what do you know; it turned out to be the best experience of my life.