From the mouths of fellows come wishes of simplifying life. Indeed, I hear it often enough in close quarters—from my husband, who wishes nothing better than to lessen life’s aggravations. And a man of little wants and needs, surely he knows whereof he speaks.

 

Vergel grew up in the fishing town of Malabon with loving parents devoted to their four sons and to each other. And theirs was a life as happy as it was uncomplicated.

 

I, on the other hand, have never known such an idyllic life. I was made to live with my paternal grandparents in what seemed some sort of conspiracy; thus I was spared what would be a normal life for a child with parents married in their teens—Dad was 19, Mom 15.

 

Finally joined with my parents after high school, I didn’t feel, so far as I can recall, the least out of place; after all, it was only what’s normal. Anyway, in both lives I lived, there was never any lack for comforts and opportunities.

 

I thought I had done everything expected of me—finished college and married well. But after 20 years of marriage, my armor cracked: I separated from my husband and subsequently complicated my “normal” life. It not only disappointed, but shocked family and friends. (Funny, in Vergel’s case, there seemed little of that reaction—people who knew him tended to leave him to his character.)

 

By the grace of God, after serious soul-searching, I feel I have found myself and settled down again.

 

To be sure, it wasn’t easy, even after I had found my soul mate. But, as corny as it sounds, love does conquer all. Instead of trying to unscramble the eggs, we’ve lived with the omelet we’ve created ourselves.

 

Neither of us have any illusions that our life can ever be de-complicated. But as fate would have it, complications do not preclude happiness.

 

Aggravations happen and, unchecked, build up, sapping one’s energy, residual as it already is. Before life at our age becomes a problem, I have decided to sort it out decisively. The economics of it is particularly sensitive. I’m taking stock of my few assets, deciding what to keep, what to give away, what to turn into cash.

 

The process is neither difficult nor painful, except, for me particularly, in the case of real estate, however modest bit of it I possess.

 

My dad used to say, “The only thing I regret in life is selling real estate.”

 

I know the feeling. Coming in fact from a family of rentiers, indeed a living beneficiary of such—the oldest, as they say, profession—I became completely sold on it myself.

 

“All you need to do is watch the calendar, kiddo,” preached Dad. “It doesn’t get any easier than that.”

 

Cheap rent

 

Well, in time, we’ve managed to free ourselves from what, in fact, proved to be the increasingly tedious task of collecting cheap rent on inherited property. Now we have to deal with liquidity, and we either play the stock market or invest in bonds, an altogether new ball game for me.

 

Watching the calendar is no comparison with watching the board. But that’s nothing compared with doing the emotional penance Vergel and I felt we had to do for the children whose homes we had broken. It took a while for us to realize we had to lighten up and forgive ourselves already, once and for all. After all, we know in our hearts we can’t, and don’t, love our children any less.

 

But the psychological power of guilt is just too strong, and the best way to protect ourselves from it, it seems to me, is by focusing our energy on productive work, feeling good about ourselves and what we’ve become, having time for fun and friends, and open-hearted altruism, as opposed to guilt-inspired generosity.

 

Living, at whatever stage and circumstance, also requires, only naturally, energy, and Vergel and I jealously guard against squandering whatever is left us. Still, age is no excuse, as cousin Gloria Roces from Vienna has convinced me, citing for example a 101-year-old Japanese doctor, Shigeaki Hinoharo, author of 15 books, one in particular he wrote at age 75, “Living Long, Living Good,” which has sold more than a million copies.

 

“Energy comes from feeling good, not from eating well or sleeping a lot,” he says. When one is having fun, doing what one enjoys, one can forget everything, “including hunger or even pain,” he adds, and also, I suppose, aggravation.

 

He encourages everyone past 65 to contribute to society: “I have worked as a volunteer since that age… I still put in 18 hours, seven days a week and love every minute of it!”

 

He says people who live long, regardless of nationality, race or gender, share one thing in common: None are overweight.

 

It’s easy to forget the doctor is 101. His appointment book is full until 2014, and he has reserved all the summer of 2016 for himself—he’s attending the Tokyo Olympics.

 

Dr. Hinoharo is, of course, way ahead of me, but I plan to catch up with baby steps—I’m 30 years behind.

 

In the meantime, I feel Vergel and I are right on track. I’m happy enough writing this column, which has me dipping into the rich bank of memories of a “privileged” life surrounded by lovable and not-so-lovable characters and stranger-than-fiction events that will, for better and for worse, always be a part of me.

 

The column energizes me, and Vergel gets his own kick out of illustrating it. It helps us deal with life’s aggravations we just can’t escape.