That bloody bee is back at it again, tugging at all our heart strings with a trilogy of Valentine’s Day ads. I salute the evil genius behind the Kwentong Jollibee Valentine campaign. Well played, sir. As if I don’t struggle enough to curb my emotional eating, this comes along and convinces me true love tastes better with an an upsized glass of pineapple juice and an extra box of Peach Mango Pie.
While “Date” is emotionally shattering and “Vow” is unintentionally hilarious (all I could picture after that twist was Jorah Mormont in the friend zone), it’s “Crush” I enjoyed the most.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the closest I ever came to being road ready. Yep. Ten years later, I still can’t drive worth shit.
Confession: I am thirty-five and I can’t drive. This is not a badge of pride, the way some people take pride in saying they don’t know how to cook – a roundabout way of saying
they grew up with servants, which means they’re rich and cooking is menial and for peasants. Yeah, no. I wish I could claim I can’t drive because I actually have a chauffeur, but that must’ve been my former life in an alternate universe because in this particular reality, I am too poor for a chauffeur. Also, people who’re proud of not knowing how to cook are crazy and run the risk of going hungry and/or eating uncooked ramen noodles. I feel nothing but sadness for them, much the same way you feel nothing but sadness for me, the non-driver in her mid-thirties who still takes the bus like Miss Rosa Parks.
The truth is, I can’t drive because I don’t know how and I’ve never really needed to. Everywhere I’ve been has always had easy access to public transportation, and there’ve always been people to drive me around for little to no charge, be it my parents, my in-laws, Le Hubs, a friend, the subway conductor and Manong Bus Driver.
My driving record is non-existent, unless you count trying to mow down chickens with a scooter. But I am a grown-up now, and I need to learn how to drive. It’s about time. I can’t take public transit forever, and I can’t keep relying on someone else to drive me. Like swimming, driving is a survival skill after all. What if I get kidnapped somewhere in the Mojave desert and my only recourse is to hijack a truck and ride out at top speed like a bat out of hell? The reception could be sketchy and who has time to call an Uber when one is too busy trying to live? Or what if the future is a George Miller fever dream, where we are all Mad Max in an post-apocalyptic wasteland where everyone fights for water and guzzoline while Tina Turner sings the theme song and the only way to get around is by driving stick in a jacked-up supercar?
In my defence, I’m short. I don’t quite like the idea of having to sit on a giant Webster’s dictionary just so I can see above the dashboard. You’ve seen the video. I had to wear shoes the size of cement blocks just so my foot could reach the pedals. But Le Hubs’ grandmother, who is about seventy, still drives and does it on the highway, to boot. Each summer she drives about four hours up north to cottage country. So what pathetic excuse can I possibly give myself after learning of a gutsy display like that? Nothing. I am disgusted with myself. A woman twice my age is more badass than I am at this moment. I need a number for decent driving school. Stat.
So here is my New Year’s Resolution: get a license, and learn how to drive.
I don’t know why they call it the Dirty Thirties. I certainly haven’t dirtied up this first half of that decade. I hope you have, though. If not me, at least you should.
My thirties so far have been so clean they’re squeaky. Much, I imagine, like what the next decade is going to be like. Squeaky. As in rusty hinges in need of oiling. Because this is it. This is my last day being thirty-four. Being on Halifax time is only postponing the fact. In the Philippines, it’s already happened, and I am already thirty-five. That’s it. I’ve hit the the peak and I’m teetering on the edge. Everything after 35 is just going to go downhill, like my boobs and my chin and my butt. I’ll deflate like an old balloon.
It probably won’t be that drastic, at least I hope not, but I’m starting to have days where I look in the mirror and I just…
I guess I’ll have to embrace aging gracefully, like Madeleine Ashton – except with less money. This means I’m never going to be like the patron saint of life at seventy… I invoke thee, dear glorious Jane Fonda, I invoke thee! But I will at least attempt not to hasten the process overmuch. I’m buying a treadmill.
Yes, a treadmill. It was that, or gastric bypass surgery. Yes, all my remedies for losing weight involve invasive procedures. Why? Because I like my results the way my father likes his coffee: instant. I want to pop a pill and be reborn immediately without the work, the blood, the sweat, the tears. I want to wake up the next day and be resistant to gravity again. Isn’t that what we secretly whisper into the ether as we blow out the candles on our birthday cake? I know it’s what I whisper. Except as punishment for having no self-control, I am no longer allowed to have cake.
So enjoy your last four days of being thirty-four. You are the only one left, the last man standing. Fight that good fight! And when Father Time wins, as he always does, don’t despair; you can join the rest of us already in the last half of our Dirty Thirties. We’re waiting for you, but there’s no need to rush.
If anyone wants to know how I spent some of the last days of my life being 34, I spent it as sick as a dog. It could be the bug going around work. It could be because I don’t believe in flu shots. It could be because the weather can’t decide whether it wants to be pleasant or freezing and the temperature keeps changing within the span of a day. Finally, it could be my whole body repudiating the idea of getting older. That last one is the likeliest scenario. I’ve decided that dread is what caused the miserable last few days I just had.
Meet Carl. Carl is a teenager who came of age in the Atlanta zombie apocalypse. His world view is shaped by his father, who was a no-nonsense sheriff when the world still made sense and people weren’t re-animated monsters out for brains. Carl can teach you things. Important things. Also, Carl’s lessons might be spoiler-heavy so if you haven’t seen the first few seasons of The Walking Dead, this is your cue to avert your eyes and move along.
Some things get better as they age. Like wine. Or cheese. Or that very rare breed of man who will never be associated with dad bod and is known in some parts as a silver fox. (What’s up, Jeffrey Dean Morgan?)
Beauty and the Beast, viewed through the sober lens of adulthood and after too much adulting? Not one of them. Sure, the songs still resonate and the spectacle still astounds, because hey they accomplished this in 1991 when computers required a whole room to house them and cell phones were as big as bricks.
Saving for Botox 
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