The wedding, the fuss and the Valium

By Pennie Azarcon Dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

ONCE I hit the mid-20s, the pressure began to build up. Subtle as a sledgehammer, Nanay would nag, “So get married already. What are you waiting for? Baka mahirapan ka nang mag-anak,” she warned, like I were an aging septuagenarian about to croak. College friends, saddled with one or two kids by this time, hinted broadly about my missing out on what they slyly described as “luto ng Diyos.”

But I had just come from a month’s tour of Europe, having won in a travel essay writing competition sponsored by this airline, and suddenly, I saw the world out there. The castles! The swans gracefully circling placid lakes! The majestic Alps! The Swiss chalets like I imagined from the pages of “Heidi”! Marie Antoinette’s excesses at the Versailles! I was the frog in the well who had leapt out of the fetid waters, saw that the world was more than just this piece of sky crowning the mouth of hell, and wanted more of it.

In the end, bowing to convention and my parents’ near panicked attempts to marry me off (quick, before The Boyfriend recovers from Ativan and comes to his senses!), I marched down the aisle looking strangely serene for my normally high-strung self.

No, it wasn’t so much resignation that in lieu of Venice, I’d be looking out on the floods of Malabon that brought on the oddly calm demeanor. Alright, it was Valium and no, I’m not telling where I got it, just that it was my last hope for a bit of sanity in our rapidly disintegrating household. Think back to that scene with the bridesmaids from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” only ten times more chaotic, and you got it.

The neighborhood beautician had been summoned, but I had like 10,000 assorted cousins, aunts and sisters who needed a manicure, pedicure, make-up and hairstyle, and they all wanted to go first because a) one had to follow up on the church arrangements; b) another had to fix my room to make it look photogenic for the wedding-gown-on-the- bed picture, not easy since the soot marks from a house fire of two years back couldn’t be coaxed out with chlorox or cleanser, and c) this other cousin had to meet the hordes of relatives at the bus terminal, direct them to the church and the reception area, and quickly apportion among assorted relatives the crates of livestock and vegetables they had lugged in, bayanihan style, before the house reeked like a talipapa.

It didn’t help that there was an unseasonal squall; this was late December for Chrissakes! but solid walls of water threatened to turn our newly washed floors into a roiling creek, so everyone was scurrying about, snatching everything off the now water-slicked floors. Between the chickens squawking, Nanay screeching and my cousins squealing, I had this mad urge to dance to that Broadway tune, “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.” Instead, I quietly halved the Valium, washed it down with water and took to bed. It was 2 a.m., the curlers were flying and the strong smell of acetone competed with the stink of the setting lotion. I gratefully surrendered to the descending void.

Before I knew it, it was 6 in the morning and Nanay was rocking me awake, surprised that I managed to sleep through the night before my wedding. The church rites were at 9 a.m., so I was hustled off to the vanity table, my hands and toes grabbed by the beautician’s assistants and my hair quickly rolled up in curlers for that Princess Di flipped bangs, which was all the rage that year. I quietly popped the remaining half of the Valium.

By this time, the wedding photographer had come, sending Nanay on another wave of panic. She had intended for the house to bloom for this photographic moment and had meant to distribute the Quiapo-bought bouquets at strategic corners, but the rains had busied her with other chores. Time for Plan B, thought of just at that very moment: simply plunk the entire twine-tied blooms into a crystal vase and move that vase wherever the photographer was aiming his camera. And so there she was, my mother in her stiff ‘do and wedding finery, dashing off like Wonder Woman from behind the photographer. Faster than a speeding bullet, she’d zip in inches away from the camera, to land the prized vase on every surface that the photographer happened to fix his gaze. “The Tale of the Teleporting Flower Vase,” I had silently labeled the pictures even as Pie the photographer, the husband of a college pal conscripted to do the job, tried his best to keep a straight face.

It was a fairly simple wedding, us being firm believers of living strictly within one’s means. My gown was an off the shoulder affair that cost P600 hecho derecho from a costurera in Sampaloc, and would be used two more times by my cousins before disintegrating. Some of our elders were scandalized: What? No flower girl and wedding cake? No champagne, no doves and giveaways? Why, they could have sprung for it if we had only told them ahead. Well, we were famously broke but also stiffly proud so we merely smiled away the well-meaning offers.

What we lacked in amenities and frou-frou, however, we more than made up for in drama. Or dramedy. This was still the martial law era (so I’m ancient; sue me) and we had written our own missal, the liturgy spiked with solemn vows of serving the masses and earnest songs often heard in street rallies. Held in an obscure church outside Manila, our wedding was easily a graphic representation of the incredible gap between social classes in the Philippines. On the one hand were our elders, dressed to the nines, this being a much-anticipated, much-awaited and heavily nudged on event, the couple in question (us!) having been college sweethearts who had managed to stick it out for eight years. Then there were our friends, not exactly fence sitters or Marcos cronies, but UP dropouts or overstaying students for whom semi-formal meant wearing socks and a T-shirt with a collar. But hey, as a choir they were unmatched, sounding quite heavenly as their voices soared with both commitment and good cheer.

Needless to say, this was a low-profile affair and nobody wanted to call undue attention to the occasion. When the officiating priest’s tiny car was found to be blocking the bridal carriage, the menfolk from both parties hitched up their sleeves, took a deep breath and carried the offending vehicle to a side street. Throughout the wedding rites, assorted relatives took turns leaving their seat to peer out the windows and doors, hawk-eyed and vigilant, for any suspicious character with a buzz cut, gatecrashers whose notion of partying might include an invite to any of our young guests. Another aunt-in-law went around collecting our homegrown missal, making sure it remained exclusively ours. At P28 per plate, the lunch we served was ample if not luxurious. And if the bride were any gauge, a grand time was had by all.

Twenty-six years later, it still feels that way.

For more on how to have the best bridal memories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s June 29 issue. Free with your copy of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.