As far as I can recall, every time a major romance goes kaput a wedding follows to remind me of my aborted love affair. When I first broke up with my high school sweetie, a cousin of mine got married a week later. Under the fluffy layers of tulle and chiffon, was my bleeding heart and cynical mind spitting out the vilest thoughts. This scenario unfortunately stretched on as an ongoing saga as I lost the different noteworthy men in my life. Love, lost, someone gets married...that’s the meat of my telenovela.
Last week, I attended the wedding of my friend’s brother. I thought to myself that I was at last attending a wedding that’s catastrophe-free, dry-eyed, peaceful and content...or so I thought. I mean I had a job that I enjoyed, friends I loved, a family I cherished and a wardrobe I could have fun with. However, despite all the treasures I had in my life, there was still something missing. It was like the gap in Lauren Hutton’s teeth. The blond in Madonna’s hair. The ego of Donald Trump. The lies of Erap. The money of Lucio Tan.
What I mean is that I was lacking one thing that kept me from being complete. Dare I say this at the risk of sounding trite – I was lacking the company of a man. The opposite seed that would fulfill my quixotic dreams and save me from being sad at weddings.
It wasn’t only me who was feeling this. I came to the wedding with a bunch of friends. On the way to the wedding our conversation in the car consisted of how Carmona is so happening, what cool places we could visit , who’s sleeping with who and who’s not anymore sleeping with who. All mindless drivel, it was a mimosa of an afternoon – light, bubbly and harmless.
Then the conversation progressed to fantasy weddings as we travelled from the church to the reception area. It was talk of color themes, kids or no kids at the entourage, where and, of course, the musical chair debate on who will be married first. This is a foreshadowing of a much more profound conversation that will bring forth an almost reluctant realization.
Maybe it was the champagne, the romantic music or the inspiring setting... it seemed like everyone was getting into an emotional haze. The byronic air became more pronounced as the groom surprised his bride with an emotional video tribute celebrating their love and their union. Machos, lolos, spinsters and the romantically challenged all started to reflect on different things. Thoughts that ranged from how far they have gone in the terrain of commitment to the opposite pole and contemplated on the ennui that prevented them from living a life filed under the category of charmed.
I, unfortunately, was pondering on the latter. For almost two years I have not said I love you. Two years – that’s 24 months, 730 days, 17,520 hours and 1,051,200 minutes. Sure, I have fallen in and out of love with some men during that time. Many of them I still love but in a very different way. Frustratingly, each and every relationship never materialized into a soul-edifying commitment.
Amid the clinking of the flutes and the gay laughter, I caught myself with the haunting awareness that I am alone. Many say that it’s not so bad. However, there are times when I realize that I, too, have been saying that to myself for too long. Especially with the holidays coming in, I feel neither the heat of the mistletoe nor the tingle of the tinsel – just the coming and going of a holiday alone.
I know that this is not permanent (hopefully). That all this loneliness is transient is just tenderizing me for my defining romantic moment. That wedding of Jippy and Hindy hit two birds with the same stone. It made me see the undeniable strength of true and enduring love in the time of divorce, Internet porn and text dating through the union of two valiant and resilient souls. However, it made me also realize what I lacked. Day in and day out I can almost predict my days in the most lackluster manner. Do my work, drink a martini, sleep. My family and friends are there to add the much-needed laughter and warmth in my otherwise prosaic existence. Really, it’s not that bad. But once in a while it hits me, especially when the nocturnal festivities start to wane and its time to say good-bye. I walk in you my room alone. No one to call or talk to. No one to say goodnight to.
Being single has its pluses, of course. No fights to give you those damn unconcealable eye bags, no slutty women to fend off and no lies to digest. I just have to live with me, with my own quirks, idiosyncrasies and preferences. I guess we all hit that dead end wherein being single is not such a party after all. That the ultimate party is actually done in twos.