Today is August 12. Two days ago, I turned 21.
I'm not very fond of birthdays. Or rather, I'm not very fond of the celebrations accorded to this part of someone's annual personal calendar. But I don't have anything against them, or even aging. In fact, I look forward to it every year. But for a whole different reason.
Every year, on my birthday, I get something important. That which is more exciting than presents in fancy--and sometimes shiny--wrappers. That which is sweeter than greetings and birthday choruses.
When I turned 8, I learned about heart disease, the possibility of sickness, and the inevitability of death. My paternal grandfather then was rushed to the hospital. The day after, August 11, he died. I was with my father, brother, and uncle that day. We were in Manila and getting ready for school. My grandfather was in a hospital in Cavite. Our first thought when we heard the news was: he waited for my birthday to pass before he left.
When I turned 9, I learned about the excitement of celebrating one's birthday in school, the hassles of preparations, and a mother's desire to make things memorable. It was the only birthday I ever remembered when my parents delivered party favors and packed spaghetti (and other birthday foods) to class. My classmates were overjoyed. There had to be a reason that my parents did that, although I hadn't gotten around to asking for such 'til now. Maybe I could bring that up some time in the near future. But I could never forget that abstract feeling of wonder and happiness I had over hosting my very own birthday party.
When I turned 13, I learned about high school, the confusion of many teens during that stage, and growing up. There were new and old friends who greeted me. There was a birthday song chorused by a classroom-full of students. People were, of course, nicer. I was a teenager, officially, and everyone at home was happy over the fact that the eldest of their younger generation was already a teen.
When I turned 17, I learned about college, independence, and even more growing up. By then, only a few old friends from high school remembered the day and sent me a text message. These were the friends who, then and there, I knew were going to stay for long and for real. I also had a new set of friends. But adjustments were being made by everyone at that time, which was barely two months after freshmen orientation, that only those closest to me knew enough to greet. That year was also the first that I got to commute alone via public transportation. Boy, did I ever feel all grown-up.
When I turned 18, I learned about the expected maturity that came with being a young adult. More importantly, I learned about freedom. By then my parents were more open to the idea of night parties, which I rarely went to simply because I wasn't as fond of them. That, at least, gave my folks more reason to grant me more freedom. I had more rein over my decisions, though. I also got to commute more, because my father had already transferred his school service business to Cavite so I was left to going to and from school on my own. And commuting, however tiring, had always been a good experience for me.
When I turned 20, I learned about love, friendship, seniority, hoping, and lots of fighting (but not the physical one). I was on my last year in college and I was fighting for survival and triumph more than I ever did. My birthday was also more memorable that year than I could say. August 10 that year was, to my gratefulness, a free day for me. It fell on a Monday and Mondays only had one class for me that semester. And that particular Monday, my professor in that one class cancelled the day's lesson. Which meant I was merely at home, saving money from not treating friends, and receiving birthday greetings. I supposed I could have done my thesis proposal then, but I was too lazy (and on birthday mode) to care.
In all those birthdays, I always thought of the one I would have when I turn 21. I envisioned myself coming into a posh eating venue where I would treat my friends for dinner. In my mind, we're all dressed in office clothes and ready to exchange the latest professional gossip. I even went as far as imagining going home to my own apartment after that, via my own company-loaned car (I'm still more realistic than to think of having my own car).
Sadly, none of that was part of the picture two days ago. Because that day, I was laundering clothes, sweeping the floor, and cooking my own birthday spaghetti. I was alone for most of the day, replying to friends' greetings, reading an E-book, and playing word games on my laptop. I was unemployed, officially, and still living off my parents' paychecks.
But that day, I still learned something important. Much more important, in fact. That day, I learned that our vinyl tiles could be whiter if I scrub them with detergent. I learned separating clothes that can color-damage the others. I learned that pasta should be boiled with oil and salt. And that spaghetti sauce would taste creamier with milk.
That day I learned that not every future we see ourselves in are true. That a lot depends on the whole world outside, and that timing is an impeccable essential of life. That being independent is not a be-all and has many faces. That living through the present with still a burning passion for the future is as much a necessity as a fulfillment.
That day, I learned about reality. And accepting it.
