A return to romance

In my 20s I went to lots of weddings and lots of divorce showers. First of all, what does one bring to a divorcée’s shower? I mean, divorce isn’t even legal in this country; but for the sake of being cosmopolitan blushing brides trade in their white dresses to become icy broken socialites wearing aubergine or gray. They brood chicly, replacing their wedding bands with outré cocktail rings.

To seem soignée and sophisticated they throw parties. When you’re 22, any kind of party seems worth the outfit. In my 30s, I think good old-fashioned crying and hysterical screaming seems more appropriate for an unfortunate situation. This urbane apathy was a product of watching too much Sex and the City. It is a rather sarcastic Panglossian attitude held by the stiletto generation.

The first divorce shower I went to was held at a spa. Two of my friends had just separated from their husbands. One was married for seven years, another was married for 13 years. My friends and I mournfully lamented that they were together for so long, what a pity that it was truncated. Looking back, what the hell was I thinking? Sure, the TV show 24 probably outlasted most of my relationships, but wasn’t marriage supposed to be forever?

Anyway, they were drunk and had facials. It was the loudest spa session of my life, the suddenly single drunklets bitching and moaning about their men. It was all very sad. But at that time it was just “another reason to get out of the house. If it’s broken, why fix it?” was the mantra. People just didn’t deal with problems back then. They cured all their worries with the help of prescriptions for some goldfish memory action. Even dogs now have Xanax.

When I was 20 I had all these outlandish ideals. First, I wanted to live separately from my hypothetical husband. I got this idea when my uncle lived in Germany while his wife lived in Majorca and they got along perfectly for 20 years. When they divorced no one had to move out. I also figured if people got his and hers bathrooms why not take it to the next level and get his and hers residences with his and hers pets. This made me realize, later on, that I was more enamored with the wedding than the marriage itself.

And thus I became a frequent regular at divorce showers. Oh, and I remember what I did get for those two: lingerie from Victoria’s Secret for their rebound relationships. Tacky and tacky, indeed.

Some call it modern, I call it dysfunction. My 20s were filled with so much dysfunction. After all, I am the daughter of the man who used to say, “We put the ‘fun’ in dysfunction.” So I did embrace it, fancying myself as a bohemian with a penchant for mass luxury brands — a bobo boho, if you will. It didn’t help that I had friends who were equally dysfunctional. We didn’t blink when people got divorced, when people got married just because, or effed up in a relationship in a major way. There was just one rule: don’t eff up the kids (if they had any). I had a French friend who got divorced so many times (she was 31 with two divorces and another marriage under her belt) and one day she showed me her ring box with her three engagement rings lined together in innocent pink velvet. I told her she reminded me of Jane Seymour as the Black Widow in the Cinemax cinema. I also berated her for not returning their rings; I mean what if one of those was an heirloom piece? Not only have we forgotten about institutions and civilization but manners as well.

 So my still-boho friends ask me today, “When did you start becoming a tight-ass?”

Well, I think it started last year. I started crying at weddings. I thought that perhaps I was PMS-ing or something. Then one tearful wedding led to another, and then I had to come to terms that I was no longer boho but boo-hoo.

Why did I see marriage as a temporary thing? Fine, half of my relatives are divorced, annulled or whatever. They have perfected the art of the Filipino separation down to where to marry for easy escape (Dominican Republic for unilateral divorce). The only solid marriage I have seen so far is my parents’, actually. Still, at five I was jaded. Dinner talk was about who was separating. Breakfast and lunch the same. So that’s why, before I turned 30, before Saturn departed, I cried. I cried because I stopped believing in love and commitment and lived a sordid equation made by dysfunctional totem poles of beliefs.

I decided when the time comes I will be the anti-cliché and stick with it. I’ll stick to the fights, I’ll stick through the body fat and I’ll stick with the homicidal children I will most likely bear.

Not too long ago, I had an epiphany. My friend from London called and announced she was getting married. Instead of telling me how he proposed she went on and on about the ring and how it wasn’t her and that it was too small. My black heart tinted a little and I told my excitable friend, “Sweetheart, don’t get married, please.” She just laughed and said, “The wedding will be great but the divorce shower will be insane!”

Great.