"69"

Soixante-neuf. There is something perversely fascinating about the number 69. When written separately, the numbers “6” and “9” are not particularly special like, say for example the number “1” which evokes an image of perfection or excellence. Or the number “8”, whose uniqueness is imbedded in its symmetry. Or the number “0”, which most don’t actually consider a number since it carries an impression of void or nothingness, but ironically also represents a cycle that has no beginning and no end. “6” and “9”, however, are “odd” (read: weird) numbers. But right next to each other, they “explode in a conflagration” (not of the orgasmic variety!) of contrasts and diversity that, interestingly, translate into something unified. Distinct, yet similar. Unique, yet surprisingly alike. Flawed perfection, or perfect flaws, or whatever. East and west. Hot and cold. Good and bad. Oh, yeah, the traditional Asian concept of the yin and yang. Coolness! Or Hotness! Whatever. It’s funny how a number strikes different people differently. Wala lang. I was just rambling about the number 69, coz I realized it’s been exactly 69 days since my birthday. But I feel exactly as I did ten years ago. I think I might have grown older in years, but my outlook is still adolescent for the most part. I was a precocious kid. Mom said I used to cry a lot when I was younger. But I was an early reader. And I already tinkered with the ivory keys of our piano at age four. And I was the youngest in my medical class. I still read a lot. And I still pound on the same ivory keys. Man, I just realized our, or should I say MY (It has become my personal property, coz I’m the only one regularly using it right now) piano is actually older than I am! At least I can rightfully brag that I’m not the most archaic resident of my room. Haha! Anyway, my really good friends and I are either approaching three-oh, or a little over three-oh. And while it is true that I belong to the 2nd of three generations living in our house right now, my brain still occasionally leads me to act like one of the brats. So I have to constantly remind myself that I have to act a certain way. A more mature way. But sometimes, it’s nice to walk barefoot on the grass, play in the rain, have your hands licked by your dog, or simply act silly with all the other kids in the house, even if you clearly have some, if not all, of the ten signs that you are, after all, already an adult.

10. Suddenly, getting eight hours of sleep every night is a quest similar to the search for the Holy Grail.

I can’t get eight hours of sleep every night. No responsible, employed, driven guy over the age of 25 gets eight hours of sleep every night. But that’s what catnaps and power naps are for. I sleep in the car (of course, I wouldn’t be behind the wheel!), in the bus, on my desk after lunch. I’ve even been known to sleep with my eyes open… Hehe!

9. When you’re eating out, calorie-counting becomes more important than mentally calculating the cost of the menu entries.

I’d like to think that I’m pretty good in math. For someone who doesn’t deal with a lot of numbers and equations on a daily basis, I do go beyond basic arithmetic. And this is put into good use every time we go to a restaurant. Some of the friends I hang out with don’t know Dutch if it hits them between the eyes, so I sometimes end up footing the bill. I’ve pretty much mastered the art of juggling having a convo with a friend while inconspicuously listening as the others rattle off their orders and doing the numbers in my built-in hardware. Lately, though, the numbers have gone way past the cost of dinner and entered into the realm of total caloric intake. I used to be a fast metabolizer. Now I’m not so sure about that anymore.

8. You gain weight even while sleeping.

I thought sleeping makes you gain weight. Then we learned that even as a person sleeps, he burns up 75 calories an hour. And this I know from experience… On my post-duty days during my training, I’d be so tired I’d usually just hit the sheets even before I’d attend to my gastronomic needs. Result: I lost weight faster than anybody could say Helicobacter pylori correctly. Of course it came with gastritis (both the habitual skipping of meals and the H. pylori). Now, I think I gain at least a pound even with just power napping. Darn.

7. You lose pounds only after half-a-day’s stay in the badminton courts...

...Then you gain ‘em back again after gorging on food you stuffed your mouth with as reward for beating your opponents’ fat asses.

6. Mr. Security Guard in your old school now address you as “Sir” or “Ma’am”, instead of “Hoy!” when you pay your alma mater a visit.

I went to Ateneo last week and, of course, I wanted to look “presentable”, which, in my profession, meant something like Patrick Dempsey in Grey’s Anatomy. But, of course, nobody could look like Patrick Dempsey even on a good day. So I jumped into a pair of khakis and topped it with a yellow button-down shirt. And I got a polite, semi-enthusiastic “Good morning, sir!” from manong guard. I guess I pulled it off. But I do miss the “Hoy, ID mo!” I think right now, I prefer it over any polite reference to how formal (and old) I look. Sheesh.

5. Wear pink and you’re easily mistaken for a gay pedophile.

I was, and sometimes on a really bad day still am, a fagnet (magnet to the fags). When I was 15, I went home early from class and I took this bus (the station was still in Lawton, right in front of the main Post Office building) bound for Laguna. I took an empty seat (yung pang-dalawahan) and waited for the bus to get at least half-filled coz that’s when we could leave already. I kinda expected a long wait coz there were only four people inside a bus that can hold 60 or so. It didn’t take too long, though, before a portly (read: fat bastard) Caucasian guy entered the bus and (Horror of horrors!) squeezed himself right beside me! Scared out of my wits, I tried to look tough (Believe you me, Arni at 15 was like any other boy at, say 12 ?! I was a late bloomer) but I guess I didn’t succeed coz the pink mammoth started making convo with me. He talked with an Aussie drawl. And he was wearing a pink shirt that screamed PEDOPHILE! What saved me was quick thinking… I faked a bum stomach and ran the hell out of the bus. So today, every time I see a guy in his 30’s or 40’s or older, pot-bellied and wearing a shade of pink, I’m brought back to the time when I almost ended up in Bantay-Bata as a victim of pedophilia. Haha! But I used to wear pink back in college. I had a pink Giordano T-shirt, a pink polo-shirt, and a pink long-sleeved polo. My mom liked seeing me in pink, coz I was his fair-haired boy. And I’d like to think I look good in pink, but I try not to overdo it coz there’s a fine line between being a fagnet, and being mistaken for a Tinkerbell. Haha!

4. People start asking you when you’re getting hitched.

And the answer would be… Imma get hitched when I have my own home, a new car that can hold a growing family, and at least a million pesos in my savings account. Oh, add to that list a trip to Europe before I take a trip down the aisle. Based on today’s economy, that would be like in 5 years or so… When you’re a guy doctor, the older you get, the higher your market value becomes. Haha! Girls on the other hand end up in ukay-ukays on a buy-one-take-one-free bargain. Haha!

3. Children affect you either positively, or negatively; you either dote on them, or they bug you like crazy!

My older sister had her first kid at 22. My brother at 28. Now, I have three beautiful nieces, and two hyperactive but adorable nephews. I was only 16 when my first niece was born and I became a “dad” vicariously through my older siblings. It’s nice doting on kids especially when you know that you can spoil them rotten without having to worry about dealing with their tantrums; let their folks take care of that. So, yeah. I love kids. But only my sister’s and brother’s. Haha!

2. You suddenly care about politics and the weather.

I don’t care about politics. Neither do I care about the weather, except that I enjoy walking in the rain and I love playing under the sun (my skin doesn’t agree with me, though). So, I guess I’m still young. Yeah, right!

1. Everything goes south, except for the hairline.

I’m “blessed” (insert sarcastic face here) with a high forehead. My mom thinks it’s the reason why I’m “soooo smart.” Baloney! I got it from her side of the family (the forehead, and the brains na din. Haha! Mom, I hope you’re reading this!) so I wouldn’t expect her to take responsibility for this thing that I used to hide under ridiculously long bangs back in high school. I look at my dad, and at 68, he still has a full head of hair, slightly thinning at the back, but you still couldn’t see all the way to the scalp. And, look Ma! No gray hair! Mom on the other hand, has very fine hair, which all of us “kids” got! So there it is, high forehead + really fine hair. I hope I don’t get premature alopecia. But I do thank mom for one thing… when others would be going crazy dyeing their hair and adding highlights, including them metrosexual (What’s with that word? I think it’s just a cleverly disguised term for sexually ambiguous or confused. Haha!) guys, I have naturally lighter-colored hair. I used to hate it, including my high forehead and really fine hair. But, with age comes acceptance. We embrace who we are and what we’re given. I just wish I had a narrow forehead, and dark wavy hair with a loose curl forming an “s” right in the middle of the forehead… And I also wanna have a red cape with a blue body suit, red underwear and red pair of boots. And I wish I can fly.