Why not, indeed, celebrate birthdays. I do, at every chance. It was mom who started me on the happy habit. She never missed mounting the observance—for herself and me—so that most of my classmates, to this day, still somehow remember my birth month, if not the exact day.
The practice went on despite dad’s objections to children’s parties. He was convinced it was the root of feelings of entitlement, so evident in children today. But he was for celebrating real achievements (“certainly not for simply being born”), and later birthdays, after one has lived long enough to have something to party about.
It was already past midlife when pragmatism set in and my peers and I began the practice of toning things down by co-celebrating the occasion, with other February-born, in my case. We were inviting practically the same guests anyway.
The added twist, however, was that, in lieu of gifts, the guests treat the celebrators to lunch, and in turn the celebrators prepare giveaways for the guests.
Lately, however, I’ve been seeing more options of celebrating milestone birthdays, which all birthdays are, I suppose, beyond 60. One’s 75th, anyway, is a milestone beyond dispute, and it will hit me less than a year from now. Only last Friday Vergel and I attended his cousin Fe’s 75th at Makati Shangri-La Hotel; it was specially and tastefully grand.
New outfits
At her request all guests, male and female, came in black, an easy enough color to find in anybody’s closet. Nevertheless, Vergel and I decided to get ourselves new outfits and follow her instructions down to the underwear—“in case of an inspection,” he whispered in Fe’s ear.
Vergel and Fe were among first Santos cousins who spent certain nights in a year with their Lola Tua in her home in Malabon, mostly sleeping on matted floors in the huge living room, for, after all, there were 53 of them.
Dicheng Fe, as she is called in the clan, was stunning as she received her guests in a baby-pink chiffon gown with appliqués of off-white lace studded with tiny diamond-like sparklers on the bodice; the gown was brought home by daughter Monique from Canada. She stood out amid all the black like a light among the shadows, from which occasionally twinkled diamonds or gold jewelry.
It was her night, after all.
When people complimented her on how pretty she looked, she’d pat her cheeks and say, “Makeup by Fanny Serrano.”
When I complimented her on her figure and gown, she winked and audibly whispered, “This is only the first outfit for tonight.” Aware of his cousin’s penchant for extravagance and naughty humor, Vergel teased her, “One of 75, I suppose.”
It felt like an intimate wedding of 15 tables. Onstage stood the single pompous chair in which the celebrator settledafter she had reentered the hall, an impish smile playing on her lips, wearing the other gown, by Filipino couturier Mel Orlina; it was an off-shoulder light-gray with ruffles, trimmed with silver glitters that reminded me of Scarlet O’Hara, who despite her many trials eventually emerged triumphant, a wizened winner in life.
From her special chair she received the short tributes from her children and siblings, a number of them coming home from abroad for the occasion. There was a short musical program, and a string orchestra played as guests went for the generous buffet. At the end, scented candles for the women and chocolate bars for the men were given away.
It was, indeed, a fitting celebration to honor the first 75 years in the life of a woman of substance— a mother of five accomplished children, an educator herself of no meager achievements, and the greatest gift of all—a first great grandchild!
Too busy a time
I’ve since begun to think of my own 75th; even small weddings take a year to plan these days. But it might be too busy a time, as it would coincide with my high school Diamond Jubilee, and many classmates from Maryknoll and St. Theresa’s would surely be around, including from abroad.
As early as now, the program for their visits, including out-of-town activities, is already being drawn up. My second book of essays could be ready for launching, too. On the practical side, I could have a joint celebration with Vergel, also February-born.
In any case, just the thought of it, the very planning, even just deciding, makes me realize that at 75 I’m definitely old! I could cry from happiness being alive and healthy and not alone.
Through no effort or merit of mine, I have been blessed with a happy and dynamic relationship that came in the nick of time. My four babies are grown and I have five grandchildren I love to the marrow! Indeed, my cup runneth over! Not to celebrate such a life would constitute a sin of omission, almost a lack of appreciation of good fortune.
Life, as I see it happen all around me, can change in a moment. I know a couple who travel as often as there are opportunities, sometimes with old friends, sometimes with the whole family, before anything more serious happens that the wife’s pacemaker or the husband’s radioactive implants in his prostate can’t handle. Plans can go awry in many ways at this age, sometimes not necessarily caused by the seniors themselves.
Closer to home, Vergel’s brother’s youngest grandchild, all of one-and-a-half, has been diagnosed with a very rare, progressively debilitating disease. The prognosis isn’t good. And all their travel plans in retirement have been put on hold. Their lives have suddenly been turned around by grief, and further grief lies ahead.
Knowing all that, I have the courage to say, one way or another, my 75th will be marked significantly. I owe it to myself, before they have to send in the clowns.