Silence, please
There comes a point in life when your body starts betraying you. For some, it’s the knees. For others, metabolism. For me, it was my tolerance for noise.
In my 20s, noise was just part of the background, like furniture you didn’t choose but learned to live with. Jeepney horns, roosters crowing at the wrong hour, coworkers shouting across cubicles—none of it bothered me. I could even endure neighbors who believed “no occasion” was the perfect venue for a family concert at midnight. When they sang My Way off-key and at full volume, I didn’t complain—it was just part of life in a country where microphones are as common as rice cookers. Noise was constant, and I thought myself impervious.
Now? If a baby squeaks in public, I tense like someone just pulled a pin on a grenade. If two strangers strike up a cheerful conversation in a waiting room, I fantasize about chewing through the upholstery. A crowded restaurant feels less like dining out and more like punishment by auditory firing squad. And don’t get me started on those who watch YouTube videos and TikTok in public without earphones on. Aging doesn’t just sap your energy—it shreds your patience like a long-starved paper shredder that’s finally getting fed.
Aging taught me that peace doesn’t just come from within — sometimes, it comes with noise-cancelling earbuds.
That’s why I cling to my earbuds. Bought for the gym, they were supposed to accompany me through heroic, sweat-drenched workouts. Instead, they accompany me through traffic jams, grocery lines, airports, and hospital waiting rooms. Phone, keys, earbuds—that’s my holy trinity. Forget one, and the day is ruined. I’ve turned into a person who, upon realizing they’ve left their earbuds at home, briefly considers canceling a medical appointment rather than raw-dog the waiting room.
Noise-cancelling, to me, is the greatest invention since refrigeration. One tap, and the world softens into silence. The baby on the plane disappears. The gossip in the doctor’s lobby fades. Even the grocery store PA system dissolves into blessed nothing. For a moment, I’m not a cranky adult with frayed nerves; I’m a serene monk, gliding through chaos in a private cocoon of peace.
Even karaoke, that eternal Filipino pastime, has moved from “quirky background” to “unnecessary torture.” Somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to find charm in people screaming power ballads into dying speakers. Where others hear bonding, I hear sonic assault. The microphone doesn’t just amplify their voices—it magnifies my dread. Karaoke, in my view, is proof that not all joy needs to be shared publicly.
Of course, it’s not that I hate all sound. In fact, I love Spotify with the devotion some people reserve for religion. It’s the only kind of noise I fully welcome—the playlists I curate for every mood, and the comforting predictability of an album I’ve played a hundred times. The difference is that Spotify gives me control. I choose the artist, the volume, the vibe. It never ambushes me with off-key ballads or unsolicited gallbladder updates.
And yet, my growing intolerance makes me wonder: Am I becoming wiser, or simply more brittle with age? Younger me could fall asleep in the middle of chaos. Current me needs earbuds to buy groceries without wanting to throttle someone loudly FaceTiming in aisle four. Back in the day, I’d turn on the TV the moment I stepped into a hotel room just to fill the silence. These days, the hotel TV remote remains untouched until checkout.
Is this growth, or regression? Enlightenment, or crankiness? Or is this just what getting older looks like—filtering out more and more of the world until you’re left with only what you can tolerate?
Because that’s what noise-cancelling really is: a metaphor for aging. You stop trying to absorb everything. You choose your inputs more carefully. You guard your peace with technology, routines, and rituals. Silence is no longer emptiness—it’s luxury.
So yes, I’ve become that person. Sensitive to chatter, allergic to small talk, mildly hostile to other people’s fun. But wrapped in silence, with my earbuds snugly in place, I like to think of myself not as a crank but as an enlightened figure—someone who has discovered that life, like your favorite playlist, is better with a volume control.
And if that’s aging, then I’ll take it.
