Among the things that Asna and I have in common is that we’re in denial about our age.
I maintain that I’m 16 and she maintains that she’s 10. We whine about it, too.
“Asna, I don’t want to grow old.”
“Me too!!! I don’t want to have so many responsibilities!!!”
“How do we stop growing old?!”
“We can’t. That’s life… you have to move on!”
I give her the chance to pretend that she’s 10.
When someone asked for her age, I saja sakat and tell them she’s 13, to which she sentap and said:
“I’m not 13! I’m 12!”
Then I corrected her.
“No… you’re 10.”
She wanted to protest initially, but gave it a second and nodded.
“Yes, I’m 10.”
On the other hand, she won’t give me the chance.
She was reading a couple of books that I used to read. Self-help books for teenagers she found on the bookshelves.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“Your old books.”
She cheerfully added:
“These are for teenagers. You can’t read them anymore, you’re turning thirty. 3-0.”
The time I first wore dark plum lipstick a few years back, she kept on complaining about it. When I was wearing it while she was hanging out in my room, she was like:
“Cikyong, I can’t look at you when you’re wearing that. It makes me distracted. You look like a 60-year-old nenek.”
Recently, I got another dark lipstick, but in brighter and maybe more refreshing oxblood. She smiled when she saw me wear it and excitedly gave me this remark:
“I like this better than your other lipstick — the other one made you look so old. This one suits your age, it makes you look 30!”
The issue here is… I am not even 30.