The joke’s on us
I’ve been well warned about it: People do get funny growing old without meaning to. It happens for a number of reasons, all to do with aging: hearing and other sensing deficiencies, easy susceptibility to confusion, forgetfulness and, not to mention, all manners of overload on one’s system over the years.
In his 80s —where I am now myself—I’d often catch Dad chuckling to himself as though he had recalled something privately funny. Mom would right away suspect the joke was on her. She was herself becoming deaf and would mishear conversations and join in saying funny things.
She’d have the TV volume on high, and Dad, in self defense, packed his ears with cotton balls. I first thought it was an ear infection; anyway, his secret stayed with him and me for the sake of domestic quiet—Mom took long to reconcile herself to her deficiency.
Unlike most of his brothers, Dad himself never had a hearing problem, but it was a problem for him all the same. Young people have a tendency to presume old people hard of hearing, and it bothered him. He would turn when misdiagnosed and thus misheard and ask me loud enough for them to hear, “Are they deaf?”But Dad, too, could have a good laugh at his own expense—about things he could no longer do and funny things he did do unconsciously, about what he couldn’t remember and in general at how confused he was.
Laughing it offWhenever I’d ask what was so funny, he’d say, almost in tears, “Me, kiddo!” After he was over the giggles he’d add, “I used to confuse everybody, now I’m the one confused!” Dad, like Dolphy, led multiple lives and necessarily had to confuse everyone to get away. When he started losing it, he often wouldn’t know in which house he was. Instead of panicking, he’d laugh it off.
“If you have any doubt whether God has a sense of humor, just wait ‘til you get old, kiddo!”
Old people are truly the funniest, if not to anyone else, to themselves. That is, of course, if they can laugh at themselves. But it’s hard not to. Just today I went into a an irreverent chuckling fit myself, and mercifully I didn’t need to explain it to Vergel because he was laughing, too.
We were in the right place, Assumption College, at the right time, 8 a.m., but the wrong day! “Practice na naman!” That’s what we would exclaim when it happened—and it had happened before.
To make matters worse, a simple thing like changing handbags would create a major disaster for me—my cellphone would be in the wrong one. These mishaps are generally harmless, except to our pride, I guess.
There are indeed countless Lucille Ball scenarios that arise daily for me, while Vergel, who still plays singles and joins tennis tournaments, seems my perfect Desi Arnaz.
I have built-in excuses, of course. The most recent could have been bad eyes; I definitely misread the school communication online. I remember my immediate reaction: how late the notice! It’s tomorrow already? I had to alter everyone’s plans, mine, Vergel’s and kasambahay Lanie’s—she had Ben set to take her day-off.
Vergel tried to be philosophical about it. “These things are bound to happen again and again, so we just have to accept it. But if I didn’t beat my opponent at the tournament last night—away na ito!”
The Assumption guards who escorted us from one building to another, only to find out the event was for next Saturday, must have had a good laugh on us. I’m glad we kept our masks on.
But there’s got to be another way to spread cheer this season. INQ
