DECLASSIFYING DASTARDLY SECRETS

We were lingering over dinner at Kalye ni Juan -- my certified platinum amigas and I -- when we got to talking about terra incognita. We agreed that though we go back many years and trust each other more than anyone else in the world, there are still things we keep from each other. Indiscretions. Intimate secrets. Deep, dark, dastardly episodes of our lives.

May these be now declassified? -- we wondered.

"Well, I plagiarized when I was in high school,” I began, feeling absolutely bold and wicked.

This opened a flurry of cutesy confessions.

“ I read my daughters’ diaries.”

"I sent Valentine's Day flowers to myself."

“I hid chocolate from my children.”

“I used to pad the family expense account.”

Someone yawned out loud then heckled : “Are we all so dull? Can't we talk of more exciting stuff?”

Such as what?

Such as – amidst giggles – did any one of us have a face lift or a nose job or a lipo?

Lipo? Uhmmm – an amply endowed amiga demurred – maybe this year maybe next year or just as soon as the clinics guarantee the bulges would stay deflated forever. Face lift? No, never, we chorused. Too invasive. Too much down time. Too hard to disclaim. Too expensive. Husbands will not allow it or will never stop throwing it to our -- uh oh-- faces when we complain about money. Children will tease and laugh. Children-in-law may gossip. And nose jobs? What for?! -- was the consensus, as each lifted her own proboscis a bit higher, regardless button-cute or just short of Grecian.

The only coy admissions that part of the session produced were to an eye job (by two amigas) and to re-landscaping in that region where babies pop out from (by almost all).

“Those are still so lame and tame,” the heckler complained again. “Don’t we have stuff rated X or R?”

“What about ... did we love someone we shouldn’t have?” Emma volunteered primly. Did I just imagine she blushed?

“Oh, you mean did anyone of us ever have an affair?” Lyn shot back as the heckler sat back with a smile that said "now we're talking."

We looked at each other, half expectant, half afraid of what we might be about to hear and not knowing how to deal with it.

No one should have worried. Nothing scary was forthcoming.

Jane broke the silence by persisting: “Such as what else?”

“Such as getting rid of someone we shouldn’t have?" -- this from me.

“Like an old flame?” Emma asked.

"A lover?"

"Or a baby?"

"No way!"

When do we take old skeletons out of cupboards? -- we speculated before we stood up to go home, none of us the wiser. Will there come a time they wouldn't shock nor embarass anymore? When we get to 65? 75? At our deathbeds?

When we have forgiven ourselves?

Maybe never.