Yes, I’m afraid I’ve gone and done it, wore something old, new, borrowed, and blue, had a big fear of tripping a big somersault kind of trip on the aisle and almost did but didn’t, got hitched, and now it’s over and done with. Surprisingly, no one lost a shoe or got hit by lightning.
And now some of life’s lessons revisited, like…
Polite conversation. It gives one… encouraging words, such as, “Why’d you pick that for your motif?” or “You must be excited” or “Can’t wait for the big day, hum?” We smile, we nod, but I am not fooled! No matter how joyous or even colossally unbelievable to select members of the honorable families (at least some of them, anyway), there shall surely be hitches and those are hardly something to be excited about. So yep, this will be about the days leading to October 15. Lotsa snark material here. Otherwise, RUN! Run from the mad monologues of a newly married geek.
We have the motif. Motif is Old French for “motive”, and conveys theme or idea, a recurring design or sequence. So if we’re talking about motif in its literal sense, well… DSTS and I were semiformal to casual bordering on a walk in the park or a ride on the stone carabaos. ‘Xactly sounds like what the barong and the sundressy gown felt like. We’d have gone with either a Mohawk, Timawan, Justice League, or maybe Appalachian motif in its stead, but supplies and funding were scarce.
Back home, though, when speaking of motif, most people tend to mean just the color and not the whole theme in general. Rarely will someone include details such as, “Oh, butterflies! Butterflies on my gown, on the silverware, and the candles, and 2,000 cocoons that will metamorphose and flutter about by the time we forcefeed people at the wedding banquet!” Or, “Ooh, whee, ooh, I look just like Buddy Holly. Oh, oh, and you’re Mary Tyler Moore.” Whaddaya mean if I’m sure? I’m sure. I dunno, maybe that’s the way it is nowadays. But the idea really sunk into me when I was there facing Lulu The Wonder Woman and he asked me what my motif was.
“Wild color combos are so in, babe. What’ll it be? Fink and turquoise? Furple and yellow?” Orange and lemons? Deciding to nix the previously considered motif-motifs, I said, “Copper.”
“Coffer? Is that, like, farang fink?”
“Hindi, like a nice, rust color.”
“Anoh?“
“Um. Bronze?”
“ANOOOHHHH?!!“
“Red na ma-brown na ma-orange na metallic. Kalawang na shiny!”
There we go. I’m feeling stupidly wiser all of the sudden, just like all brides are wont to be, so please indulge me: mes hijas, should your turns come? Remember what elderly Aunt Jill tells you: the basic thesaurus, while helpful, will give you lots of anohs, so it’s best to bring something. A Pantone booklet. Or swatches of the cloths you like, which I did, in the form of an old, shiny sleeveless pajama top. Why it was shiny, I don’t know — maybe it used to be something you wore to the clubs, but it bloated and handed down to me and I used it as a pajama top. Or maybe it was of Mama’s wunnerfully magical retasos. Anyway, just bring something.
So a lot of people ask why this color. Well… I like it, to start with. It’s metallic… very cool in photos. It also has this warm, earthy shade that looks good on you whether you’re fair, tanned, or darker. Gold and silver do not work the same way and, in fact, get kinda washed out in some lighting, whereas copper or bronze look great in natural outdoor light or artificial indoor lighting. I don’t have anything against bright colors, ‘kay. Wear those limes and incandescent oranges and pinks if you love ‘em. I’m just saying that sticking with those colors in a society with a dominant colonial mentality must compel your maidens to really like their tans, or else swear by the power of their favorite peelers or Likas Papaya, that’s all.
I asked Lulu to suggest a lighter color for the ninangs to wear. Why I’d want to do that, well, all the ninangs were fair complexioned, and for relatively mature women with fair-to-medium skin tones, pastels look great. Lulu gave me a choice of old rose (pink) or puce (yuck). So I choose old rose… I don’t exactly like pink, but sure, why not, Lulu. I can live. Hum. Anyway, I just want to say my ninangs all wore pink and they looked fab, bias in favor of my taste notwithstanding. Hee.
These boots were made for walking. “Chin up and smile,” hissed the manong of the church through smiling, unmoving teeth, as I attempted my first wobbly step while fearing I might step on the hem. For the manong was trained to maneuver everyone in the tradition of Patton, and was being tasked to do the exciting job of coordinating the step-nos after no rehearsal was allowed, since a place of solemn worship rightfully demands solemnity, and picture coordinators shouting, “Wan, tu, tree smile! Glide! And, glide!… sinabi nang glide, ang kulet…” when other people are naturally in serious spiritual mode, concentrating on their problems and sins and penitence and stuff. Not in harmony, right? But gawd, the spontaniety. Nearly killed us.
“Dahan da-HAN!” Manong pulls me from the pensive tangents back to the pre-mating ritual. “Ayan,” he approves after a few more steps, still with that weird smile. Gaad. He’s destined for a life bereft of dating fabulous submariners such as myself, that’s for sure. Sigh, here we go. Chin up, check. Smile. Ste-ep, ste-epp… whoops. There goes the hem.
I reach the middle part of the aisle where Mama and Papa were waiting for me so we could proceed together, as was in Manong’s script. After holding to each parent, I checked if the smile was still on (it was) and we resumed walking, with chin up, while checking the smiles. Papa was nervous, too… I mean, there were a few people but for non-showbiz people like us, we’re like, all those people lookin’ at us? Scary. So he kinda veered slightly away from the red carpet leading to the altar, and I was like, “Papa, I think the heels? Have left the carpet. Let’s go back.” And yay, we made the walk ALIVE. The feeling through it all was calm, then chaos, then calm again. Then a sort of dread on what might happen next.
It’s the harbinger of what married life is. And the video must suck.
Preciousssessss. The horrid Monsy, who grilled DSTS and me on cathecism and graded us unfairly even if we answered all questions correctly just because neither of us nor our parents bothered having going through confirmation whatever stuff, officiated the ceremony. Sorry, DSTS, but I couldn’t let this go. The other couples who were poor excuses of confirmed people couldn’t even get one answer right… except for that man who was a former seminarian. What’s the point of passing these people through this test when it’s clear they got zero? I even know the freaking catechism stuff — not in the Bible — better than they do, for Pete’s sake, and I’m not even Catholic. Then that Monsy gives us crap for knowing what the church is supposed to be testing couples for, and give the dumdums thumbs up? That’s what priority is for you, you, prissy, habit-wearing fart. No wonder Jesus said it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than for people to reach the kingdom of heaven. It has nothing to do with being rich. It’s because they take the trouble to get confirmed, then fall asleep on Sundays.
He instructs DSTS to put the wedding band on my right ring finger. DSTS was confused. “Di ba left?”
“Right, sabi!” Monsy insisted. Dude, we didn’t piss him off the last time, did we?
And just saying that Monsy is one badly-trained Babylonian mystery practitioner. The tradition of the ring dates back to ancient times when people revered the Circle as the cradle of life, the never-ending cycle, Semiramis’s moon egg. Whoever wears the ring has the power bound to the body. Now it also happens that during those times, it was believed the end of the vein leading to the heart was found on the left ring finger — the heart was supposed to be located on the left side of the body, probably because you could hear the blood pumping better on that side. So if you had the ring worn on the left ring finger, the one who puts it on controls the wearer’s heart. So it really was the left, Monsy. LEFT! Man, what are they teaching clueless guys in seminary these days!
Oh, right, we forgot the doves.
It takes 17 muscles to smile. But do that for a whole day and in lipstick, with my teeth! Felt like crap and I looked like the Joker. After the ceremony you’d think we would have the sense to rest or freshen ourselves up for the banquet, but no. We had to be dragged helter-skelter across Lito Atienza’s domain to oblige the poor shutterbugs’ quota of under a thousand pics in pixels. We posed like Fred and Cyd with toes together, arms held straight while holding hands, but we looked like cigarette stubs. And now we have sore feet (and mine hurt more — at least DSTS wore socks!).
Seriously, though, Lulu did a great job with the dress. It was probably not the most perfect gown he designed, but it was just right for me — because I am the Ever Wobbly! It was comfortable enough for most places we were shanghai-ed to, and hem and length just right to minimize chances of collision with incoming bipedes. So Lulu may be the second most requested sister, but dudes, Lulu rules! He gets my shameless plugs! Buy his dresses! And while the Sisters are mostly cool, have a caveat that Lachesis might send you a fugly red mannequin for photo stuff, ’cause she sucks! Huzzah!
Always say grace before dinner (“Grace.”). No, dear God, I really was grateful for the food. There’s this thing when I see people I know and am comfortable with that makes me so thankful for life that I want to eat heartily and there we were. We were famished.
Then came the hard part. The waiter who has been cruelly rationing our share of the good stuff put a platito of juicy, succulent crab meat in front of us, and I swear my crab claw stared at me and screamed, eat me! EAT ME! And I had this overpowering urge to rip off my darn gloves and grapple with the guests for one decent shell cracker so I can pound at the shell and pick on the meat until I was sure that fine specimen of crustacea did not die in vain. I looked at DSTS with that wild look in my eyes (“Honey, for the love of crabs!”).
“Don’t even thinkaboudit,” DSTS said quite cheerfully enough. The thing about being subjected to public spectacle is you make an effort to improve your talents in ventriloquism. We ate little ’cause we decided it’s nicer to go around and talk to guests after preliminary dishes and to avoid public speaking things and stuff normally expected by people who normally want to be entertained — so those guys were stuck with tinking the glasses with their forks. ‘Cause imagine shaking hands with people while smelling of crab. Gotta love the sticky feeling, too. You know, I’m going back to my inclination that guests really are a nuisance, after all. And we splurge on nicer food especially because of company? What kind of twisted society have we developed into?
Ed Borncross really blew us away with the mood stuff. The quartet delivered music by the Gershwins, Rodgers and Hammerstein, and some contemporary favorites, and they didn’t falter even once, or if they did, it wasnt’ noticeable. We were expecting a three-person ensemble and a vocalist who was prone to cringeworthy piyokness (we saw her perform during Ed’s invite to go-sees at prior gigs at Fernwood and San Agustin Church). But on The Day, Ed hired a different and much better vocalist and threw in an extra violinist. Ed gets shameless plugs, too. Both performance and price are highly recommended, just let me know when you need snooty mood music.
By the way, for people planning to throw parties at the Fernwood gardens that are worth lots of moolah to begin with, we checked and the ‘biospheres’ are nice, but on summer days, it’s like a pressure cooker in them. Maybe there are plans to install megabucks worth of airconditioning someday, but for now we’re saying it’s not smart to hold your parties there when summer, unless you’re fond of runny makeup and sticky barongs. The plants can only do so much for what DSTS refers to as the nog-nog smell.
Toast to the best of the best. Cool Grandma, you would have partied, your teacher friends were there, hee. DSTS was that sixth grade classmate I was telling you about then, strange how things sometimes turn out, huh. We miss you.
To the Mamas, thank you for being the pillars that hold together our families. We couldn’t have made it this far without you. To the Papas, you showed us what life is, thank you for inspiring all your children to work hard. To brothers and sisters… so that’s what you look like in formal wear! Soldier on! And we must continue to be relied upon to whap each other behind the head in times of necessity. Family people, we appreciate the support.
To Piolo and Sandara, we’re still big fans! Thank you for helping us with that crazy day. To Den Marsh, Yayis, and Mike, thanks for the well wishes. To Intrepid Jane and Fearless Gival, thank you for keeping the cool whe we sicced you with the bouquet. What can I say? We’re wholesome… but for a while we had you going there, didn’t we? To friends who braved the traffic and hitched rides from Mars, thank you for sharing the day with us. We both come from small clans, and you guys being there made the day extra special.
And to friends and family who couldn’t go… were you NUTS?! You missed out on a chance of a lifetime. It’s not likely I’ll ever wear drag in full splendor again! Thank Glork.
And these, too, shall come to pass. Hello, Yulu.
