Wrinkled and young at 26

Last week I turned 26. A mistake. I know I should have started lying way back when I was 22, especially to my parents who would probably believe me if I said that I was indeed that age and let me get away with everything. In this town and in my world, you can get away with a lot of things at 22. Have disastrous romances, failed entrepreneurial ventures, parental rebellions and the next day it won’t matter.

After 25, you’re considered and expected to be old and responsible. Something I’m not used to being. Youth has always been on my side. The Robin to my Batman.

Allowing me to claw and cry my way to whatever I want.

At 26, I’m not as believable as I was at 22. I’m no longer adorable, just cloying. So now I have to behave.

I was actually en route to granny land and was just planning a quiet evening with my dearest friends to mark my birthday. If it were not for my boyfriend who surprised me with a grand bash that entailed magnums of Taittinger, foie gras, Silly String and the extraordinary debauchery granted only to the youngest of souls that sealed shut the VIP room (decorated by Miguel Rosales) of Embassy last Saturday, I would have spent it watching CSI: New York (which I hate but can’t stop watching). I felt wonderful, beautiful, silly and young (he even surprised me with a dress from my dear friend Rhett Eala – a hot pink leopard tube dress – tarty enough for a sweet 16). The next day I was hung over and, unlike the days of yore when I could wake up after a great night swilling without feeling a thing, doing brunch became a nauseating chore. As I write this (it’s now Wednesday, I’m still sipping Berroccas and swearing off liquor for the rest of my life), I’m still feeling the sting of too much bubbly.

You may say that 26 is still so young. It is and the thought of more than 74 years of this (God willing) is daunting. This year, though, I actually feel old. It was foreshadowed when I started using La Mer and Shiseido Bio Performance because I felt like I was starting to look old. A little paranoid of me, in fact, since I still get questioned about my age in movie theaters, thus forcing me to bring my passport around to prove my right to perversion and violence in the cinema. I guess I felt strung out from my daily routine.

I used to wake up at noon and look at my pedicured toes until, say, 2 p.m. Shop, decide to buy another dog, decide where to go for the weekend (and weekdays even): the luxe life.

This year I actually had real problems. Not stupid problems like what to wear to what event or who to invite to an eight-seater dinner without insulting anyone who was left out (yes, in my world this is considered front-page news). Real problems that equaled Katrina on an emotional and financial level.

I’m not gonna bore you with my problems or dramas since I pay someone to listen to them already.

Yet even if I feel old and worn after seeing too many things I shouldn’t see, there are parts of me that still feel young. The bad kind of young. Insecure, self-conscious and a lot of teenage angst. Jerry Seinfeld said that according to a poll, people rated public speaking as their greatest fear, second to death. So at a funeral, that means the greater public would rather be in the box than deliver the eulogy. I for one tried to fight it. I’m scared of two things: the video camera and the microphone, two things that are essential to becoming a superstar, thus I remain B list and broke.

I tried to overcome my fear of the rolling cam by guest hosting for shows and even doing interviews.

Although I look like I know what I’m doing for the first five minutes, my con gets uncovered. Once a host told me that I was speaking twice as fast as I was thinking. Which meant I was babbling nonsense because I wasn’t really thinking, so what in the world was I saying? Another time I just started babbling about how I was feeling alone in the world, vulnerable and fragile, in a VTR for haircare products. Great TV shows are the cause of this. Look at Mr. Big, how smooth his lines are. I wanna be Ms. Big; I want a screenwriter.

Public speaking is another thing. I end up speaking like a chimp educated in some far-off resort town.

When I accepted an award for MTV a long time ago, I said, "Thank you for MTV, thank you for everyone, thank you to this award." I should have been fired from The STAR on the spot. Last week, in an attempt to be charming at an event that boasted delicious meals from all over the world, I said to the audience, "You can now eat Australia, Brazil and Spain." So gross.

So I guess even if I’m getting older, there’s always still that part of me that quakes in the presence of strangers. I may act like I don’t care what others think. Yeah, sure I do when I’m drunk. But yes, I’m still a roaring teenager at heart. Without the zits. Thank heavens.