The Older I Get, the Earlier Dinner Gets (On Aging, Love, and Boundaries)

I decided to be healthy in February the way I decide most things now, casually and without any long-term vision. Not a resolution. Not a lifestyle change. Just a vague intention to do better than whatever January was.

I had just celebrated my birthday a few days earlier, which at this age feels less like a milestone and more like a polite head nod to time. Like, yes, I see you. You’re still moving. I’m still here.

My kids did greet me. Eventually.

Birthdays are complicated now because of time zones. Some of them are a day ahead. Some are a day behind. Some are probably staring at the clock wondering if it’s too late, too early, or safer to pretend they already texted. I never know if a greeting is early, late, or being coordinated in a group chat I’m not invited to. At this point, I choose to believe the delay is due to global time differences and not selective memory. I choose peace. This is also part of being healthy.

For my birthday, I asked my husband if he could ski so we could spend the weekend up in the mountains.

For the record, I do not ski. I’m from the Philippines. We don’t have snow. We have heat, humidity, and sweating for no reason. Asking him to ski is my way of participating in winter culture without risking my life. I enjoy skiing the way I enjoy haunted houses. From a distance. Preferably indoors. With coffee.

In my head, the plan was perfect. I imagined waking up, sipping coffee with a view of Lake Tahoe, feeling inspired to write my next book. Taking breaks to wander through tourist shops. Walking all the way to the lake for the obligatory birthday selfie. Something like “54 and I still got it,” which is a lie I only believe when the lighting is good and my knees are cooperative.

I even planned dinner. Friday’s Station. Lake view. Sunset behind snow-capped mountains. The kind of birthday that sounds effortless when you describe it later.

This was the dream.

Reality arrived immediately and without apology.

I Tried to Declutter and Accidentally Audited My Entire Life

I started decluttering the way I do most things, confidently and with absolutely no plan. I told myself I was just going to clean one small area. One drawer. One box. Something manageable. Instead, I sat on the floor holding things I haven’t used in years, negotiating with myself like each object had feelings.

I don’t know why January does this to people. Every year, suddenly, we all decide we need to clean our lives. Reset. Purge. Become a new person with fewer possessions and better habits.

I never really understood the whole “spring cleaning” thing until I worked in retail here in the U.S. Probably because where I came from, seasons were not really a thing. I’m originally from the Philippines. Chinese Filipino descent. We don’t have winter or spring. We just have hot and raining. Sometimes both at the same time.

But anyway, back to decluttering.

I started with the things I brought back from my mother-in-law’s apartment. I told myself I was keeping them safe for her. Preserving them. Being responsible. Being thoughtful. And then, slowly, it dawned on me that she no longer cares about them.

Not in a sad way. In a peaceful way.

She already kept what mattered. The rest are just things that finished their job.

Which means now they are my problem.

I don’t want to throw them away. I want to donate them. Because another man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Also because I need to believe someone else will love these things more than I currently do.

For a brief moment, I thought about selling some of it.

This was my first mistake.

I tried Poshmark. People out here offering a dollar like I’m going to carefully package something, print a label, drive to the post office, and feel fulfilled for spare change. Excuse me, dear. At that point, I’d rather donate it and get a better tax write off and some peace.

Then I tried eBay. Which now feels less like a marketplace and more like everyone’s collective garage sale from the late 90s. No one knows what anything is worth. Including me.

And then there is Facebook Marketplace.

Facebook Marketplace is not for women my age. It is not for people who value safety, sanity, or sleep.

Bartering starts at 9 p.m. for reasons I will never understand. People message “Is this still available?” and then disappear like ghosts with commitment issues. Honestly, that part I can live with.

What I cannot live with is when they actually show up.

Sometimes they arrive in a car full of people. Why. Why are there four of you. Are you here to buy a lamp or overthrow a small government. Please just take the item and leave.

Sometimes they come to the house and start sniffing around instead of doing a quick handoff. Sir, this is not an estate sale. This is a transaction. Take the chair. Hand me the cash. Do not explore.

The entire time I’m wondering if the money is counterfeit and whether this is how I end up on the evening news for trying to sell a side table.

Once I decided to meet someone in a CVS parking lot because that felt safe. They ghosted me. I sat there like an undercover cop who forgot why she was there.

Anyway, where was I going with this.

Oh right.

Decluttering.

Or menopause.

Or capitalism.

One of those.

I completely forgot my point halfway through, which is apparently my new personality trait. Menopause brain does not gently fade things out. It takes the thought you were holding and throws it into traffic.

I Didn’t Announce My Absence (My Laptop Did)

I didn’t announce my absence because I didn’t know I was going anywhere. My laptop just didn’t wake up one morning. No warning. No goodbye. No dramatic final error message. It simply chose death.

I tried everything. Restarted it. Charged it. Talked to it like a sick pet. Googled symptoms. Asked GPT like it was a grief counselor.

GPT told me my laptop died of natural causes.

Natural causes.

For a machine.

Apparently this is a known issue, which is offensive information to learn after the funeral. I felt like the whole world collapsed. Not in a dramatic movie way, but in the quiet way where you realize your entire brain lives inside a rectangle that has decided it no longer respects you.

That laptop was my best friend. My therapist. My filing cabinet. My bad idea storage unit. My password holder. My witness.

So naturally, everyone asked, “Why don’t you just get another Windows laptop?”

Because I felt like GPT and Copilot pulled me aside and said, Listen. You can either get the dependable Apple, or when the next Windows laptop dies in three years, you are absolutely on your own, kid.

Even my kids sided with Apple. Of course they did. They said things like, “It just works, Mom,” which is extremely bold coming from people who still call me to ask where their documents went.

So now I have a Mac.

What She Kept

I showed my mother‑in‑law the dishes the way you show someone proof that you were paying attention. Proof that you listened. Proof that you cared enough to remember.

“I kept them all,” I told her. “The plates. The bowls. The mismatched ones. Even the chipped ones.”

I said it casually, like it was just a storage update. I expected a polite thank you. Maybe a nod.

Instead, she stopped.

Then she reached for a cup and saucer, like one of those delicate English tea sets that look like they belong in a storybook. She held it like it was a memory she hadn’t touched in years.

“My sister gave me this,” she said. “She told me to remember her every time I used it.”

She had several pieces from family. None of them matched. Not a single one. Different florals, different shapes, different eras. A collection only a sister could assemble, kinda chaotic, sentimental, and but perfectly imperfect.

Then she picked up another cup. Small. Oddly shaped. The kind of thing that could be a cup or a vase depending on the day.

“This one,” she said, smiling at the crack running down the side, “was from my other sister. She said the crack made it look like it was laughing.”

She is ninety‑three now.

When she moved from her two‑storey house to a two‑bedroom apartment, she worried. When she moved again into assisted living, she worried all over again. Not about the move. Not about the downsizing. But about her things.

The indoor dishes. The patio dishes. The holiday mugs. The boxes of decorations. The ribbons. The wrapping paper she reused because “it’s still good.” The small, practical things that made up a life.

She worried about what would fit. What would have to go. How you decide which memories deserve space.

She made lists. Then lists of lists. Then rewrote those lists. I didn’t laugh at her. I recognized myself in her. I realized we were the same kind of woman — the kind who would’ve been millionaires if modern stationery culture had existed when we were younger. Journals. Highlighters. Color‑coded emotions. We were born too early for the aesthetic version of our anxiety.

And then, in the middle of all this tenderness and nostalgia, she said:

“There’s a man in the building.”

I looked up. “A man?”

She nodded, annoyed. “He’s hitting on me.”

My husband and I burst out laughing. At ninety‑three! But also… we’re pretty sure she doesn’t actually know what “hitting on me” means.

But the man? Oh, he knows.

“He waits for me,” she said. “By the elevator. Every single time. Like he has somewhere to be. But he doesn’t. He’s just… standing there.”

She reroutes her entire day to avoid him. Different chairs. Different hallways. Different timing. He still appears.

“He asked if I wanted to have lunch with him. I told him I already ate. It was 9:15 in the morning.”

She said it with the same tone someone uses to describe a broken appliance. Mild irritation. Zero interest.

She loved my father‑in‑law. He died. That love didn’t. She has no desire to replace it. There is something both hilarious and heartbreaking about that kind of certainty.

She mentioned her old bus seatmate too — the woman she used to sit beside every week on the shuttle. “She moved to another home,” she said. No sadness. Just a shift in the schedule. People leave. Circles shrink. You adjust.

She never once called it loneliness. So I won’t either.

What We Ate When I Didn’t Feel Like Christmas

This year, I didn’t feel like Christmas.

Not in a dramatic, cancel-the-holidays way. Just… off. The kind of off that happens when you’ve been traveling, missing people, crossing time zones, and trying to pretend your heart didn’t get left somewhere between Las Vegas and wherever “home” is supposed to be now.

I was in Vegas with my daughter and grandson right before the holidays, and when I came back, the spirit didn’t follow me home. I didn’t decorate much. I didn’t feel festive. I mostly stared at things and thought, okay, sure, it’s December.

My husband noticed. He always does. So he finished the decorating for me. Quietly. No commentary. Which, honestly, is the most romantic thing he could’ve done.

Most of my family is in the Philippines, so Christmas here was going to be small. We invited my mother-in-law over. My husband announced he was making prime rib and vegetables — because of course he was.

He’s an incredible cook. Truly. The kind of man people assume should’ve opened a restaurant instead of managing a communications company. He can sauté, braise, roast, and plate like he’s auditioning for a cooking show.

But there are two things he can’t do:

1. My Filipino and Chinese food

2. My desserts

Which means, in this marriage, I don’t cook often — not because I can’t, but because I married someone who absolutely does not need help until suddenly he does.

And this was one of those moments.

I realized I needed to contribute something. Not because he asked — but because Christmas has a way of making you want to prove you showed up, even when you’re tired.

That’s when I remembered creamed corn.

Specifically, the creamed corn I used to order in Southern California. Steakhouse creamed corn. The kind that has no business being that good. The kind you don’t ask questions about.

I checked the pantry and found… canned corn. So much canned corn.

There was a brief period in this household when someone — who shall remain unnamed — became convinced via TikTok that the world was ending. Possibly a zombie apocalypse. Possibly supply chain collapse. Possibly both.

We were prepared.

I am confident that even when everything else expires, we will still be eating corn.

So there I was, Christmas Eve, emotionally underwhelmed, staring at shelves of apocalypse corn, deciding that this would be my contribution. I wasn’t going to the grocery store the day before Christmas. The lines would be insane. The parking lot would be feral. The roads would test my faith.

Instead, I did what modern women do when faced with a culinary crisis.

I asked GPT.

And listen — I’m not saying AI saved Christmas.
But I am saying we had creamed corn.

I asked if canned whole kernel corn could work. I asked if it could taste like Lawry’s. I asked if I could make it ahead of time. I asked if I could make it richer. Butterier. Steakhouse-level indulgent.

GPT was very encouraging. Almost suspiciously so.

I followed the instructions. I made it ahead. I reheated it. And then — because life is humbling — it tasted a little salty.

So naturally, I went back to GPT, like one does when standing in the kitchen questioning their life choices.

Should I add sugar?

GPT said HELL NO.
Gurllll don’t go crazy.
Follow the system.

At one point, I admitted I only had salted butter.

GPT did not judge me.

It calmly walked me through how not to ruin Christmas with salted butter and fear.

And you know what?

Dinner happened.

The prime rib was perfect. The vegetables were great. The creamed corn — born of canned goods, mild despair, and artificial intelligence — was rich, comforting, and somehow exactly what the night needed.

It wasn’t the Christmas I imagined. But it was warm. It was enough. And everyone was fed.

Sometimes adulthood looks like that. Not big feelings or big revelations. Just making do. Letting someone else lead when you’re tired. Feeding people with what you have instead of what you planned.

Also, sometimes adulthood looks like accepting help from a chatbot because the grocery store parking lot feels like too much.

The Creamed Corn (End-of-the-World, Steakhouse-Adjacent Edition)

Born from canned corn, holiday fatigue, questionable TikTok prepping decisions, and a very opinionated GPT.

Ingredients

• 2 cans whole kernel corn, drained
  (Because this household was apparently preparing for a zombie apocalypse.)

• 4 tbsp butter
  (Yes, mine was salted. We adapt.)

• 1 tbsp olive oil
  (Steakhouse trick. Butter + oil = commitment.)

• ½ small onion, very finely minced
  (Like SUPER fine. Mince until you cry all your emotions out.
  Blame the onion. No one gets to call you emo.)

• 1 clove garlic, minced

• 1¼ cups heavy cream

• ¼ cup whole milk

• 2 tbsp cream cheese
  (Optional, but also… why are we lying to ourselves?)

• 1 tsp sugar — MAYBE
  (More on this later. Calm down.)

• 1 tsp salt (start light)

• ¼ tsp white pepper
  (Black pepper is fine if that’s what you have. We are not elitists.)

• Tiny pinch nutmeg
  (Optional, but makes you feel fancy and emotionally stable for five minutes.)

Instructions (a.k.a. The System)

1. Build the base
Melt butter and olive oil over medium-low heat.
Add the onion and cook it slowly until soft and sweet. No browning. No chaos.
Add garlic for about 30 seconds — don’t let it get aggressive.

2. Corn gets cozy
Add the corn. Stir it around. Let it soak up the fat for 3–4 minutes.
This is where corn learns its purpose.

3. Cream bomb (gentle version)
Add heavy cream, milk, sugar (JUST A LITTLE), salt, white pepper, and nutmeg.
Bring to a gentle simmer.
Do not boil. Corn deserves respect.

4. The steakhouse texture move
Blend about ⅓ of the corn until smooth, then stir it back in.
This is what makes it lush instead of sad.

5. Finish rich
Lower the heat. Stir in cream cheese until melted and silky.
Simmer another 3–5 minutes until thick and glossy.

6. Taste and adjust
If it doesn’t make you nod slowly, it’s not done.

The Sugar Panic (Because This Will Happen)

I asked GPT: “Should I add sugar?”
GPT said: HELL NO.
Gurllll don’t go crazy.

Follow the system:

1. Add cream or milk first

2. Then butter

3. Blend more corn

4. Sugar is the LAST resort (¼ tsp max — not a vibe)

Dump sugar too early and congratulations — you made Thanksgiving casserole.

Reheating Notes (Important, sis)

• Reheat low and slow

• Add cream or milk first

• If using salted butter, add ½ tbsp at a time

• Taste after every step

• Walk away when it’s good like a professional

Do not microwave straight from cold unless you enjoy broken sauce and regret.

This is not polite corn.
This is I didn’t feel like Christmas but I still showed up corn.

Is This Adulthood?

I used to think adulthood would feel like arriving somewhere—like I’d wake up one day calm, competent, and finally sure of myself. Instead, it feels more like moving through my days with a mental checklist and a practiced smile, doing what needs to be done and making jokes along the way so no one notices how tired I am. I’m good at this part. Too good, maybe.

But lately, I haven’t been showing up.

I quit a job I loved. A job that looked, from the outside, like proof that I was finally doing adulthood right. I started as a seasonal employee. Part-time. Within three months, I became a department supervisor. Then a key holder. Before my third year, I was promoted to assistant store manager in the highest-volume store in the district. My boss’s boss told me to stay. To hang in there. That in a year or two, I’d have my own store.

And still, I left.

It wasn’t an easy decision. I loved the work. But the culture was relentless, and being competent made me an easy target—especially for the store manager and the managers around me. The better I performed, the more exposed I felt. So I walked away from something I had built from the ground up.

Now I’m lost again.

I’m scared to admit that out loud, especially at this age. I’m turning fifty-four in a few days, and instead of feeling settled, I feel like I’m standing at the beginning of something without a map. I thought by now I’d know the ropes. That I’d have direction. That I wouldn’t still be asking myself what comes next.

I found love late in life. He’s close to retiring. I uprooted myself, moved to a foreign country, rebuilt from scratch, and took a job I knew nothing about—only to leave it once it finally started going well. And now I’m here, half a century in, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do next.

The Best Christmas Gift I Never Expected

 It’s almost Christmas, and I keep finding myself pausing in the middle of ordinary moments — folding laundry, washing dishes, staring out the window — because something inside me feels full in a way I didn’t expect.

My books are selling on Amazon.

Not viral. Not headline-worthy. Just… real. Real people, somewhere out there, choosing something I made. And at 53 years old, that feels like a miracle I didn’t even know how to pray for.

This is the best Christmas gift I never expected.