LOOK, I may no longer be able to pull all-nighters of writing and editing. Text I could churn out in a couple of hours some years ago may now take a whole afternoon, and my brain feels like oatmeal afterwards.
Still, there is very little I forget when it comes to work.
I remember interesting quotes and insights from interview subjects, how their eyes or tone of voice changed. Since I’m an advocate of outlining before I write—it’s a practice I promote and emphasize during my occasional writing workshops—I know where to put chunks of information, especially for book projects, and I don’t stare at my laptop screen for hours wondering how to start.
Thanks to today’s relatively accurate transcription apps—although remembering the conversation is essential, so you know when the app misheard something—this most painstaking part of the process has become easier to manage. (I prefer TurboScribe, which can handle Taglish, although you’re only allowed three free 30-minute recordings a day, so 1) I pause and start new recordings in the middle of long interviews, and 2) I pay for a transcription subscription for the month or two I’m doing a big project.)
Yes, thank God, a few months short of turning 62, my mind is older (though probably not as old as my osteoarthritic hip), but I can still meet deadlines—sometimes even submit stuff a few days ahead, no kidding—and enjoy my work without getting lost in that swamp of data.
Now, daily life—that’s a different, much more ridiculous story.
I knew absent-mindedness came with age, but nobody told me it was compartmentalized. Thus, while my notes are exactly where they are supposed to be, my parking stub is not. Neither are my glasses and cellphone. In my own house. Multiple times a day.
On a recent dive trip to Tubbataha, I thought I had lost my gloves (not allowed in that protected area, but it’s with my stuff) and one rashguard. They were at the bottom of my dive bag, where I had absolutely zero recollection of placing them. Then, passing by the Tubbataha Management Office on the way to the airport to fly home, I left my phone charging cord and power bank on a table while getting a drink of water. I turned my handbag upside down at the airport, with help from my friends: nothing. Of course, because they weren’t there. Again, I had zero recollection of leaving them, and they stayed behind in Puerto Princesa, to be brought by Tubbataha boss (and dear friend) Angelique next time she heads to Manila.
Oh, and my buddy Christine found a pair of whale shark-patterned leggings that she kept asking people about, since several of us ladies have one, and this was left hanging on the deck of our dive boat.
I said nothing, but it turned out to be mine. And I could have sworn I packed it.
I’ve left my glasses and cellphone on side tables, cabinets, corners, on top of the microwave and the fridge, and I have to call my own phone from my landline (pathetic) just to hear where it is. Imagine, then, that one time when I had silenced the ringer and forgotten to unmute it, so calling was useless. (It was on top of the dog food container, because I was checking the supply.) I swear, this would all be simpler if my dogs and cat could talk (“Uhm, Mom? It’s…here”). And yes, St. Anthony, whom people pray to for lost things, must be saying, “What?!!! You again?!!”
My latest embarrassment was when I stuffed a mall parking ticket into the deep pocket of my daster when I went grocery shopping last week. When I tried to fish it out, when I thought it was under my phone, I couldn’t find it. I panicked, and had already handed over the copy of my car’s papers and license so the parking guard could make a report and accompany me to pay the almost P300 (!) fine. I fished again, harder, and found the small stub, folded up and almost stuck to my thigh because of the profuse summer sweating. I swear, I had to wave it in front of my car airconditioner vent to dry it out a bit, not wanting to hand over the pawis-drenched, almost translucent paper to the guard. Eeewww.
Keeping it in my wallet now—at least for the rest of summer.
Our Lady of the Rosary of Manaoag, all sparkling and beautiful
I got an invitation on short notice from my boss and friend Thelma to join her and other friends on a drive to visit Our Lady of the Rosary of Manaoag in Pangasinan. The heat was oppressive, but my day was clear, we had a driver and an airconditioned van, the meet-up point was near my house, and it felt like a personal invitation from Mama Mary: Her block rosary image had just arrived in my house the day before.
It felt like an oven inside the church despite large fans, but Our Lady looked brighter than the sun in what seemed like new vestments and a cleaned-up countenance. We learned from Thelma’s friend Tet that Our Lady got new clothes twice a year, and the waitlist for devotees who wanted to clothe her was five years long!
Thelma and I opted to finish our rosaries on the side of the church near the altar; if the church proper was an oven, this section, with no fans and little ventilation, was an open fire pit. Still, the sweet face of Our Lady of Manaoag, who celebrated the 100th anniversary of her canonical coronation last April 22, made the penance, as we jokingly called it, bearable.
I joined Thelma in praying a novena for her husband Louie, who passed away only a week before. For some reason, while Eid’l-Adha was a national holiday, mainly for our Muslim brothers and sisters, the Minor Basilica of Our Lady of the Rosary of Manaoag was almost empty after the Mass, so our prayers felt quiet and heartfelt. It was also an ideal time for a rosary, as we asked Mama Mary to continue to watch over us, as she has done all our lives.
A testament to the heat: The candles in the church’s often packed candle gallery, always filled with smoke from the burning petitions, were actually wilting in place, and the air was less hazy. Wilted candle or not, though, I’m quite sure every single prayer was heard.
