The triple eleven effect

On 11-11-11, I turned 65. If you add six and five, the sum is again 11. Friends vigorously sent greetings and attached blogs that this day was also a “money bag” day. Portals would swing open bringing a cornucopia of good luck, abundance and good health.

 How easy it was to be swept by this tide of blessings. I actually imagined myself turning 18 again except, this time, I was going to boogie the night away with my grown-up kids and the true loves of my life, my grandchildren.

The room was filled with floating balloons in the shape of musical notes, pink Cadillacs, jukeboxes and vinyl records with blinking stars and color confetti. There were curlicues dangling on the ceiling with R.P.M. vinyl records and pink sunglasses. Everyone wore pedal pushers, mary janes and blue denim jeans. Music filled the room playing hits from The Beatles, Carl Perkins, The Associations, Dave Clark Five and The Ventures. High school buddies danced to Lady Gaga’s Born this Way and called themselves the GahGah Ladies while colleagues from work danced Mambo No. 5 and reaffirmed what friends are for.

 To complete the rock and roll theme, each table had to appoint a music spinner to compete in a game called, “Name that Tune.” While many could sing and remember the lyrics, very few could actually name the songs of the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s. It challenged the memory of each Baby Boomer in that room as they sang excerpts from songs like You’re a Native Yorker, Needles and Pins, Happy Together, Honey Don’t, Buttercup, and Filipino kundimans like Pakiusap, Ikaw, etc.

The 1960s was the best time for me. I was raring to catch the sun and conquer the world. I was also in love. There was this handsome young man who had a crush on me but was too shy to say so. He therefore approached my brothers and tried to butter them up in the hope that they would eventually lead him to me. But my brothers only talked cars so every time he saw them in our garage, he’d hand his keys to his red Thunderbird to swap for their German machines, a sure bait to catch young girls then. But it didn’t work on me. No young man driving a Thunderbird could hold any candle to my true crush, Ricky Nelson.

Steps of the scent of a woman tango

I liked Ricky Nelson because during one fine summer, I was driving along Hollywood and Vine when I spotted Ricky Nelson in a top-down (convertible) car zooming past our car. “That’s Ricky Nelson! Quick pick up speed and catch him,” I screamed. Ricky heard my cry and he slowed down so that his car was cruising next to ours. Close enough to wink at me, he said, “How are you cute little girl?” I played back that scene over and over in my head.

When Ricky Nelson performed at Araneta Coliseum, I bought ringside tickets to his two shows. He was not in the same league as Frank Sinatra, but his looks were enough to keep me on cloud nine, jumping, screaming and waving my arms wildly. We even went up the stage to give him leis of sampaguita. I cringe at the thought of those crazy escapades but then again, youth came hand-in-hand with bravado.

 Going back to the night of the triple elevens, everyone was in high spirits including a particular college chum who danced, sang and chain-smoked that night. She was also a Scorpio like me. “Stop smoking Ging Garcia,” I admonished. Ging replied, “Letty, when it’s my time, it’s my time!” Spoken with careless abandon and disregard for the fundamentals of good health and long life, I surmised.

“One of the best things you can do for your health is to connect and nurture your relationship with other women friends,” said Marfina Teodoro, another classmate.       

She was quoting from a recent Stanford study that women provide a support system that helps each other deal with stress and difficult life experiences. There was also this “quality girlfriend time” that helps women produce more serotonin — a neurotransmitter that helps combat depression and can create a general feeling of wellbeing.

“There you are Letty, I told you that nothing beats sharing your feelings with girlfriends,” Ging replied. I totally agreed. Ging danced a mean Latin cha-cha and lifted me up in the air like she used to do way back during our college sports days. “Ging, stop that, I’m not a little girl anymore!” She laughed, “But you are still as light as one.”  

College chums Ging Garcia, Marfina Teodoro, Cristy Puno, Baby Araneta, Ina Dizon, Sylvia Gala, Sonia Recto, and Mariliese Saldana

We continued to eat, share jokes and dance. Some even positioned their chairs around the dance floor like what we used to do during our jam session days of the ’60s but this time there were no “wallflowers.” Inhibitions vanished with age.

“Aha!” Msgr. Sabino Vengco, Jr. declared, “With age comes wisdom, God’s gift to all.”

The following day, Baby Araneta, another college chum, sent me a text: “Ging suffered a heart attack and passed away.” At the wake, friends and relations wept openly. “She was so full of life and laughter and her last happiest time was at your birthday, Letty.”

On the day I turned 65 (or eleven), Ging partied and celebrated life among her cherished friends. She seized the day with sweet abandon.

“Carpe diem,” my husband Arthur loves to say.

Life is short. May we be so blessed and fortunate like Ging when our time comes.