The countdown continues

I'm blaming it on the weekly comic. Ever since 52, and now Countdown, days, weeks, months have been passing faster. Which is fine, except for the getting older bit. Makes one think, if my life were a weekly serial, would it be as engaging?

Birthday celebrations have been getting more low key. I don't even remember last year but I think it was spent in bed. Sleeping, of course.

This year's was equally laid back. Lounging in the living room, beer in hand, watching Austin City Limits (Rilo Kiley and Death Cab for Cutie) and Temptation Island. Then Battlestar Galactica talk til 3 a.m. with Faye and Dodo.

Taking time to relax is a luxury. A rare, sweet luxury that my body isn't used to. I read somewhere, Reader's Digest I think, that one should relax by degrees or else the body gets shocked and gets sick. So here I am, sniffly. The price of a long vacation. The price of getting old.

32

Quiet Saturday at work. Carpet cleaning's the only thing happening. And the waiting for the carpet to dry so I can eat properly in the pantry. The staff set up a make-shift dining table at the reception area right across the bookshop. So it's "Hello books! Hello hungry people!" as soon as you enter. The place is so quiet you can actually hear the chewing. I'm kidding. A little bit. If you really try hard to listen...

Brought my comics with me. Catching up on the All-New Atom and the Irredeemable Ant-Man. Come to think of it, I do have a thing for shrinking men...

The rest of the afternoon is purposely drawn blank. Looking forward to going to Rockwell. The boyfriend will be shopping for an outfit for his exhibit opening (Ayala Museum, have ta look extra spiffy) while I will be wandering the aisles of Fully Booked. I do wander. It's my thing. I walk around aimlessly first, grabbing titles along the way. Surveying, so to speak. Then, the hunt with a mission begins. Followed by the checking of the wallet, and the weeding of titles. My very own Glorious Mystery. This has been my ritual since I was in school, but mostly in discount book shops. The beloved Booksale, from where I have completed my Stephen King and Clive Barker titles...

So.

32 years old.

It's all happening man. It's all happening.

After the After Party

Turning 30 felt major. Turning 31, not so. I think that 31-39 is like the growth-gap years, the gray area, the space-time continuum fold. A limbo. The long lunch hour before we go back to work in our forties. It's getting settled. It's the three turns before the long comfortable sprawl on the grass. It's the denial years. It's the fun years. Plus the constant sideways glances at blinking ATMs.

I turned 31 in bed, watching the first episode of Love Story in Harvard. One of W's surprises. But the Infernal Affairs boxed set shut me up. This guy really knows how to.

The post-birthday birthday party, in front of Sam's eviction, and later the mood-swinging Full House marathon, and much much later, cognac and photo albums and chocolates, on the floor just like the good old days in the university. Like we were waiting for class to begin. Waiting for morning when it's safer to catch a ride home.

Market, Market

I turned 30 somewhere between the pirated CDs and barbecue stalls in Marikina's Riverbank market. Nothing unsual, nothing strange. Just a little older, that's all.