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I turn 32 in a few weeks. When my birthday arrives, it will perhaps herald yet another bout of reminiscing and self-reflection. It’s typical of a midlife birthday, I think. 32 isn’t a significant number to fawn over. It’s not like turning 13; the age that ushers you into teenhood – a phase where you’re allowed to turn your nose up at primary school kiddies and their naive, unworldly ways. And have fun with the proverbial butterflies in your belly whenever a pop star belts out a tune to match his silly coiffure.
Then there's 16. 16 is sweet. 18 is even sweete; 18 is the two digits that bring in with legally-procured hip-sounding cocktails I once pretended to enjoy. 21 is supposedly the big one. That’s the birthday that entitles you a key locket, the key to Club Adulthood. Although I don’t understand why it requires a symbolic key –you’re forced to join the rest in the adult world whether or not you choose to unlock its doors.
Now let's talk my number -32. A time for me to think about the couldas, wouldas, shouldas. I could have joined a hippie group during my Uni days. I would have taken swimming lessons when I still looked decent in a bathing suit. I should have flirted with that crush in college.
I’m looking forward to spending introspective birthday.
*****
I turn 32 today. A few hours ago, a friend called and apologised over and over for not being able to have dinner with me because of a last minute emergency. My plan of spending a quiet evening with a close friend was dashed. I was already in the mall - what was I to do? After taking a deep breath, I decided to have my birthday dinner with myself. Surprisingly, I was comfortable with the sudden change of plans. A solo dinner should have sounded pathetic but it didn't. That's because there's little that bothers me these days. At least, it's what I hope to believe.
With my thoughts army company - here's vow I made: I will never be confused and swayed by those nettlesome '30 is the new 20' and '40 is the new 30' catchphrases. 32 is 32, I accept it. There's no point in buying into feel good, age-bending sayings to create a proxy for my self-esteem. Just like there's no point regretting the fact that I will never be the person I had once dreamt of being. There will be no couldas, wouldas, shouldas. Yes, today I admit to myself that I am a deeply flawed person. And false modesty this is not. I call it acceptance.
While the day isn't filled with flowing champage and crackling fireworks - and a sense of emptiness is still lingering inside me, I remember during the dinner, I blew an imaginary flickering candle over an imaginary cake, after making a birthday goal (rather than a wish).
" I must, I need to be a better person," said the voice in my head.
I looked through the gallery of photos featuring stylishly shot women. In black and white, they looked like fashion spreads in a typical high-end fashion magazine. The women were beautiful, immaculate – except for one missing jigsaw piece. They were one breast short of a pair.
The photos were shot as part of a campaign to raise awareness on breast cancer. They certainly wowed me - I admired the women; their fierce courage evident on their faces as they wear their scars on the chest like badges of pride. Yes, even the scars looked like works of art. Perhaps that was the intention of the photographer. To change the mindset of those conditioned to see a missing breast as a sign of deformity.
It would take more than a collection of artistic photos to jolt me into awareness. That is, if the campaign was meant to work as breast self-check reminder or an educational piece on the dangers of breast cancer. Many campaigns have attempted (I worked on one myself) to inform, educate, lecture, chastise, remind me on the possible dangers that could stem from a lump in the breast. But they did little to drive me to perform the monthly ritual that could save my life. Breast cancer. Those are the two words that are inevitably followed by “It will never happen to me.”
Breast Cancer Awareness month has come and gone. During that period, I found myself thinking of a close friend, P, who succumbed to breast cancer last year. After her passing, I began to question my own, if I may use this dramatic word, mortality. I took to self-checks with religious fervour. I realised then the gravity of everything that’s been touted in the breast cancer campaigns. The sad part is - it took a loss of a dear friend, for the realisation to hit home.
More than a year has passed since P left us, and as the sadness faded away with time, so did the urge to perform the breast self-checks. I was awashed with guilt for a few reasons. One. I had treated self-checks as a light matter that’s not even worth remembering. Imagine – even the death of friend could not make the simple ritual stick.
Two. I had, once again, associated P with the illness that took her away.
For the last few weeks, I drew a things around me that looked like a woman’s breast. Don’t sound the pervert alert – it’s just my way to remember that I have two important bumps on my chest. Somehow, I have the feeling that I may soon forget about caring for my assets. But for now, I’ll do what I can to remember.
As for P, the next time I write about her, it will be about the deck of memories about our friendship. If I fail to remember all the great things that make P the woman she was…is, I’ll find it hard to forgive myself.
When I tell people I'll be going to a Take That concert soon, I normally get two kinds of response. One will be of awe and admiration. The other of bewilderment and utter disdain. The latter proved to be the more popular.
Take That certainly didn't make it easy at all for some of its adult, thirty-something fans to flay their devotion raw. This was once a band with lads who rubbed oil and jelly on their bare bodies for the music videos. They wore hot pants and fishnet tops. They had a song with the words “Jam! Can’t spread no more!” for lyrics.
If some of us old-timer fans had the maturity that’s meant to come naturally with age, we would flee and seek comfort in the company of cellists and violinists. However, by some spiral of fate and capitulation, we fell right back in love with the reunited Take That. Sans jelly and tights, but with the good looks and dance moves still intact.
Me? My journey back to the arms of Mark and the other lads had its Kubler-Ross progression.
Denial: No, this can’t be! Mark, Howard, Jay and Gary reforming as a 4-piece Take That. Without Robbie? Those have-beens will never make it! But…ooh, Mark still looks as gorgeous as ever. No no no…they are not coming back into my life!
Anger: Why must they be so irresistible? It’s completely their fault that they aged so darn nicely! I hate them! But ooh…Mark’s crow feet and wrinkles. That man is like fine wine; he sure gets better with age…
Bargaining: Okay, if I listen to more Pitchfork recommended bands, can I indulge in a dance routine of Pray? And a shout-along to the song Shine?
Depression: Am I really a loser for drooling over their 90s concert clips still? I must be a loser! Give me some tissue, pretty please…and leave me be. I need to be alone.
Acceptance: That’s it. I am a fan. Take That is back as a five-piece group; Rob has rejoined. Never underestimate the power boybands can wield. The boyband era may happen only once but the cheesy pop tunes, the matching outfits will stay with you for life.
To Mark, Jason, Howard, Gary and Robbie, see you soon.
Writes. Wishes to be married to Thom Yorke and Anderson Cooper at the same time. Travels for gigs. Makes zines. Draws, occasionally and badly.
