Spoilers up to Season 3, Episode 7 “Thirteen” of The 1oo.
This is not about Edsa, although it is a bit about freedom, but not on that scale, not really. Scratch that – truth be told, I already feel bad about opening with that, because what does Edsa have to do about old loves, right?
During Friday’s night out with the girls, they reminded me about how, at seventeen, I had boldly said that I wanted to die at 35. I remember none of it, but apparently I also said things about wanting to get educational plans for imagined future children, and similar nonsense, so. Yeah, I said a lot of shit as a young college kid who had no idea life was about to be very different from what had been within my imagination at the time.
“Thirty-five,” they said, “is only four years away.”
“Fuck,” I said.
“And we’re doing Greece pa nga when we’re 35, di ba?”
“God, Kate, please don’t die in Greece?”
“I can’t make a 100-percent fool-proof promise, but I will *try*–”
“Bawal mamatay sa Greece.”
What had I been thinking, really, talking about dying at 35? Well, something has to be said about someone who’d wanted to go at her peak: Suppose this was someone who thought she’d be done by 35? To be fair, I was seventeen, so I must have thought simply doubling my lifespan at the time would have been enough for me to do everything I wanted?
It’s strange and naive, because while the years between turning twenty and turning thirty have taught me a LOT, I am most definitely not done learning just yet.
tl;dr – Kate at 17 was stupid and wrong.
These days, I am still stupid and these days I am still wrong, and I was mulling over these thoughts as I was on the way to the grocery store on Sunday morning: There are a lot of things people expect 30-somethings to no longer be. Such as stupid and wrong, of course.
Over dinner on Friday, we also talked about skydiving. A friend said something about wanting to do it when we were younger. “But then again, married now,” she said, and apparently, that was that.
“So it does make sense to be reckless in youth,” I said. “Growing up, you tend to become more risk-averse.” At which point I dutifully began drawing a graph in my head: Risk-aversion is directly proportional to age.
Later, another one chimed in to note: “However, when you reach a certain age — say, 60 — you tend not to pay attention too much to the risk anymore.”
Which makes sense, so I edited the graph in my head to depict a bell graph, the line dipping after 60.
So older, you could no longer be stupid, no longer be wrong, no longer be reckless. (Or so expectations go)
Which brings me to the point of this entry, which is supposedly a list of things I thought I would no longer be after 30 (but still kind of am):
This year has been a horrible recording year. I wrote rarely, if at all; and from the looks of it, I was bruised from work from January (Pope Francis) to December (30th anniversary book, LJM). This year had very little breathing room, truth be told.
Anyway. Best effort to recall everything in this haphazard round-up that I am putting together on the eve of my birthday (of course.)
Letty Jimenez Magsanoc – LJM, as she was fondly called in the newsroom – died on Christmas eve. She was an icon of democracy and press freedom, the Inquirer’s editor-in-chief for 24 years, and my boss for ten.
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Come let me love you
And then color me in
Come let me love you
Come let me take this through the end [x]
As I always like to say, love found me on a strange September morning, when days were gray and nights were long, and we were all too young, nicotined and caffeinated.
It feels like so long ago, persons ago, but really, if anybody had asked me that same morning, when I woke in a different bed to a different girl making breakfast, if I could see the two of us, say, eight years on, still waking, still here – I would have said yes.
In a heartbeat, yes.
Drea and I are 8 years today. Ika pa nga, kung bata ‘to, sumasali na sa MTAP haha. I love you love, here’s to 8,888 more years.