ETHER DIARIES

“Masarap siya, hindi masyadong mata…” I slowed down and lowered my voice when I realised what I was about to say, particularly because I was saying it in front of my much younger gay bestie. “…matamis.”

He immediately laughed at the trentahin in me. He heard the hesitation, the careful word choice, and the unmistakable preference behind it. The dessert was good because it was hindi masyadong matamis. Apparently, I had not been reviewing dessert. I had been submitting my application for middle age.

My preference for less-sweet things was not a conscious decision. It was more like an automatic software update that installs sometime in your thirties and quietly lowers your tolerance for sugar. When a dessert is just right, the phrase simply escapes: masarap kasi hindi masyadong matamis. You say it without thinking, then realise that you have begun speaking like someone who owns a preferred brand of olive oil.

This happened over coffee in a coffee shop, where we were also trying to figure out whether one of the baristas used they/them pronouns. As we sat there, the conversation shifted to the men he had met through me, which was always dangerous because he remembered people the way a goldfish remembers tax laws.

I had to describe them in ways his brain could process. “Gerard, the twinky one.” “Brian, the cross-fit gay.” “Kyle, the bear.” And so on. I was not surprised that he remembered them by those descriptions. It was like watching a broken vending machine suddenly dispense the correct snack.

After categorizing what felt like half the LGBTQIA+ alphabet, I asked, “Okay, so if you had to categorize me, what word would you use?”

He paused dramatically, then scanned me from head to toe.

“Hmm. Bejewelled gold necklace. Diamond ring. That massive leather tote bag that could smuggle a small kitten. Iced oat latte because your intestines have declared war on lactose. And the preference for hindi masyadong matamis. Girl, you are a Tita. Girl, do you call your residents hijo and hija?”

I had to clutch my pearls, or rather, my gold.

I tried to defend myself. “I am an obstetric anesthesiologist. This is what happens when you spend too much time around obstetricians.”

But if he knew I had been Googling “tango lessons near me,” or that I had chosen chopsuey over hotsilog for breakfast because the latter was too fatty, he would have added those details to the evidence pile and presented them to the court as Exhibit A: the Tita Files

One day, while I was driving, my car suddenly began screaming. It kept announcing that the passenger was not wearing a seat belt, even though I was alone. Before I could consider ghosts, I noticed my enormous leather tote bag sitting in the passenger seat. It was so heavy that the car had mistaken it for an unbelted human being.

That was not an unreasonable mistake. One day, I emptied the contents of my bag in an attempt to make it lighter. I found neglected coins, booklets of professional-fee invoices, and a pen case containing five pens and two markers. There was a toiletry pouch with sunblock, toothpaste, a toothbrush, pomade, perfume, two different mint inhalers, and a bottle of White Flower. Another pouch contained two sets of chargers, a mouse, an HDMI adapter, and several flash drives. At that point, the bag was less an accessory than a mobile office with emergency diplomatic capabilities.

Then there was my laptop, my iPad, and my Kindle. Apart from my AirPods Max, I also had my AirPods, because music is life and apparently one pair is never enough. I found a couple of artificial-sweetener sachets and some minted toothpicks that were still in their packaging. I had no idea why I was carrying them, but throwing them away felt irresponsible. What if the exact emergency requiring artificial sweetener and minted toothpicks occurred?

And, of course, there was the life-saving medicine pouch. It contained pain relievers for stress headaches and random back pain, hyperacidity medication for when my stomach staged a protest, a lactase pill for my lactose intolerance, a 1cc syringe, and an epinephrine ampule. I had recently discovered that I was allergic to something, so naturally, I prepared for the next medical emergency. As they say, dinala ko na ang buong buhay ko sa bag.

That was why I desperately stopped anyone who tried to move my bag. Otherwise, they would be shocked by its weight and injure their back. I was not being possessive. I was protecting the public.

That is how a Tita packs her bag: as though it could support an entire community, with an answer ready for every emergency. It is basically Doraemon’s pocket, except the items are heavier, less futuristic, and mostly for gastrointestinal problems. The bag carries not only the things I might need, but also the anxieties I have accumulated through years of work. If a charger breaks, I have another one. If someone develops a headache, I have medicine. If someone is suddenly invited to a meeting, I have a pen. If there is a zombie apocalypse, I have a minted toothpick to clear the spaces in between my teeth of brains. (And comment, “Masarap, hindi masyadong matamis ang brains.”)

Speaking of allergies, I recently found out that I am allergic to an antibiotic. For more than three decades, the only hypersensitive thing about me had been my feelings. Then, one night, I went to the bathroom to pee and found it difficult to open my eyes. I had rashes all over my body. I got scared, realized I had forgotten to bring my sister along, and immediately took a Grab to the emergency room. That is why I now carry an epinephrine ampule everywhere. Some people carry lip balm. I carry a potential plot twist.

A year earlier, I had also discovered that, surprise, I have asthma. Yes, after growing up surrounded by the dust of lahar in Pampanga, I developed asthma only recently. My lungs had apparently spent decades reviewing the evidence and decided to file a complaint in my thirties.

With age, all the illnesses you never knew you had begin introducing themselves. Sometimes, while your body is recovering from diarrhea, it decides that this would be an excellent time to add vertigo. It is as if your body is thinking, What symptom should I make him suffer from today? Then it spins a wheel.

There was one month when I experienced a series of unfortunate events: an infection that needed antibiotics, antibiotics that caused severe diarrhea, severe diarrhea that needed another antibiotic, and that second antibiotic revealing an allergy I would have preferred to discover through a less theatrical method. My body had become a badly managed group project, with every organ contributing a new problem at the worst possible time.

When I was finally recovering, I realized how much I had taken good health for granted. On the day I finally felt nothing unusual, I told myself, “So this is what it feels like to be well.” I missed it. I was so used to being sick that I doubted the day would go smoothly. I expected something new to emerge by the end of the afternoon. Perhaps a mysterious pain, a rash, or a sudden intolerance to another category of food. But nothing happened. I felt normal, and the normality itself felt extraordinary.

After I got better, and after weeks of not seeing each other, I met up with my young bestie again. I told him to meet me in the parking lot. When he asked which car I was using, I told him to follow the sound of Celine Dion belting out “The Power of Love.” He did.

When he entered the car, he immediately made fun of my playlist, which contained Mariah, Alanis, Whitney, Regine, and Celine. I had named it “90s Diva Sing-Along.” I explained that I listened to it when I was stranded in traffic because it diverted my attention from irritation to guessing when the drums would thump before Whitney belted, “And Iaaaaay…”

Sometimes, he gets reintroduced to songs he had only known as background music from the years when he was still sucking on a pacifier. He gets to know TLC, Sugababes, and Destiny’s Child when Beyoncé was not alone. When he hears about them, he treats it like an essential life-changing gay history lesson. This is what the elders listened to, he seems to think. I have to absorb the wisdom.

He still makes fun of my Tita taste in music, of course. One time, when I picked him up, he climbed into the car and said, “I didn’t have to check the plate number. I knew it was you because I saw LeAnn Rimes playing from outside.”

When I am not with my bestie, who laughs at how much of a Tita I am, I am with my group of same-aged Tita friends. One time, one of them hosted lunch while another brought her own sourdough bread for everyone. We talked about work, careers, property acquisition, renovations, appliance comparisons, and plans to upgrade our vehicles. Just adult things.

Gone are the days when we talked exclusively about petty hospital fights and other people’s love lives, although both topics still manage to sneak into the conversation like uninvited relatives. These days, the conversations are more serious. We discuss mortgages, maintenance, medical complaints, insurance, household repairs, and the subtle differences between appliance brands.

This is adulthood: gathering around lunch, eating homemade sourdough, and discussing whether the new refrigerator is worth the price while quietly comparing everyone’s blood pressure medications. At some point, one person will mention a contractor, another will recommend a dermatologist, and someone else will ask whether anyone has tried a particular supplement. We have become the people our younger selves would have found unbearably boring.

And yet, there is pleasure in this kind of boredom. We have worked long enough to afford the occasional practical luxury. We can buy the better mattress, choose the more comfortable shoes, replace the unreliable appliance, and order dessert while still having the sense to comment that it is hindi masyadong matamis. We can bring sourdough to lunch because we want to, not because someone told us it is the only bread available. We can listen to old songs in traffic and call it self-care.

Perhaps that is what makes titahood complicated. It is the stage when the body begins revealing problems that had apparently been waiting in line for decades. Allergies appear. Asthma arrives late. The stomach becomes a difficult colleague. The back develops opinions. Every ordinary ache demands a brief investigation, and every unexplained symptom becomes a possible plot twist. The oversized tote bag is no longer just a fashion choice. It is a portable negotiation with mortality.

But titahood is also the stage when years of hard work begin to produce visible rewards. The gold necklace, the leather tote, the iced oat latte, the carefully chosen breakfast, and the less-sweet dessert are not merely signs of aging. They are signs of discernment, comfort, and the ability to choose what suits you. You have earned the right to enjoy things slowly and specifically. You know what you like, what your stomach can tolerate, and what is worth paying for.

Maybe that is the real meaning of hindi masyadong matamis. It is not a rejection of pleasure. It is a preference for pleasure with balance, texture, and a little restraint. It is knowing that life can be rich without being overwhelming.  

After years of working, worrying, saving, and carrying everything we might possibly need, we finally learn how to taste the sweetness properly.