My birthday is coming again. For the thirty fifth time now. What a number. In a sudden. I opened the window in the living room, letting the fresh morning air of a new day entering my house. Where had my years gone ? They seemed to leave no trace where they went and disappeared. I looked at my sleepy face in the mirror hanging in the bathroom. I think I look exactly just like 5 years ago. Is that the reason why I can’t recall my years of life behind? Or is this the result of laughing and loving with my lovely hubby, my chubby niece and nephews, my caring parents, my wonderful friends and friendships? Just don’t be too soon to be proud of yourself. I think it is common that Asian women look younger than they really are compared to their Caucasian counterpart. Or because of younger-looking genes I inherited from my parents.
I reached a tiny container with a pink lid, picked some facial cotton from it, and poured three drops of 3 in 1 facial cleanser on the cotton. Or maybe it’s the fruit of my meager diligence in applying my favorite brand of night solution & age fighting moisturizer all this time. Then I began to wipe dirt off my face when I noticed some disturbing grey hairs among the black. I have to admit that I’m not in love with them. No matter how they represent wisdom and maturity, they are not supposed to appear at my age. My age? I’m thirty five now. Who said that it is an age of youth? Welcome to the club! I remembered my naughty uncle who lives in Switzerland. One day when we met, his head was totally shaved. I was afraid that something bad had happened to him such as cancer and chemotherapy. But later he said he hated grey hairs as years went by and decision to be bald is the best way to hide them forever, besides being cool and looks cool. Ah, this is only a side effect of my habit in changing shampoo brand too often. I made an excuse, haphazardly. I pulled one of the grey hairs, and soon I spotted another one. The more I pulled the even more I caught another, hiding beneath my black crown. This is unbelievable. Yesterday I was just a teenager enjoying youth. I’m not ready for this. Not yet. I gave up pulling on my grey hair. My arms went into spasm. There must be many inside there. And the ones I’ve pulled will soon be longer again to be visible. Life is too short to be busy counting how many grey hairs you have.
I began to count something else. This time something I enjoyed very much more. The number of SMS I found in my cell phone. One, two, three, four, and they were still coming. I smiled to myself contentedly when suddenly a message kept showing itself on my hand phone screen. “New message received” and that was all. It had stopped working completely in a sudden. The inbox was overloaded. I pressed any button on the keypad in panic and it refused to change. My loyal cell phone, accompanied me for 4 years and never disappoint me, was broken on my birthday. Despite being touched and joyful in realizing that so many birthday messages were sent to me at nearly the same time, I felt a gloomy feeling of farewell. It was indeed an old cell phone and I was supposed to change it and buy a new one long time ago. However, my despair of not knowing who were the peoples that had sent me the warm wishes and incapable to reply were much greater than the feeling of loosing a precious and important gadget. Probably because of my fool emotional side that it was not pink and I failed to find a pink cover when I bought it. I cared and thanked it but never adore it. The next thing came to my mind was how to rescue the phonebook. It had hundreds of numbers of my friends and relatives. It had no Bluetooth, USB, or infrared connection. It is a gadget from the Flintstones era.
While busy with hand phone troubles, I heard someone’s voice behind me. It was my husband. He had waken and standing at the bathroom entrance. He held a red paper bag with a logo from one leading department store on it. He hugged me and kissed me while saying “Happy Birthday, my dear wife”. I set aside my concern about my cell phone for a little while. I let myself in his arms for seconds before proceeding with his birthday present. It is his habit in never wrap a present nicely and lovingly. From the outside, my husband is as simple as his wrapping, but in the inside he is as precious as a jewel. I cared only about the wrappings in our old times of dating. At my age, it would be ridiculous to bring the matter to the surface. I dug into the bag and found pink lingerie inside. But that was not all. There was also a white box with letters that read “Sony Ericsson”. I held my breath, looking at my husband’s smiling face, and began to open the box. “Honey…is this…? “ Then suddenly, shining in the middle of my palm, there it was. A brand new 3G rectangular cell phone with camera on its shiny surface, as virtual as it could be. But it was not the main attraction. I stared at the color. It was the color of my dream. Pink. It was truly nicely and lovely pink. I had never seen a pink cell phone as stylish as it before. I grabbed my husband’s neck to mine. I couldn’t even say any proper words to express my gratitude. Not solely because of the present. But, it was more about his caring for what I need, what I like, and about the timing. I knew they were the real presents he gave me. By the time I whispered “thank you” in his ears with tears running down on my cheek, I knew one new thing about a birthday. It is a gift of love and life. It is a gift from The Divine.
Birthday will come back to me every year, routinely. My age will keep moving. Getting older or being old will never ever be avoidable. But life itself is more than just about counting numbers of how many years I have lived in the world. It’s about counting the blessings. And the new thing for me is that the counting will renew itself each birthday time. It’s because The Divine gives the blessings endlessly, giving fresh supplies all the way, as long as I am willing to stop in the middle of my journey to receive them and appreciate them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kuala Lumpur, while joining a writing workshop in British Council with Sharon Bakar, October 2006
No comments:
Post a Comment