Eighteen years ago today, on a bright and brisk Saturday morning, I got married.  There was nothing significant about the date to us.  Unlike others who get married in June or December, we decided to get married on November 26, 1994 because it was exactly two months after I finished taking the bar on September 26th.  We had often spoken of and about marriage as some vague destination we would like to arrive at since the time we started dating.  In 1992 when I was getting restless in law school he exhorted me to hang on in there.  He said I only had two more years to go; the finish line was in sight; I couldn’t quit then when I was so close; my dad would be so proud to have a lawyer for a daughter; I will take the Bar and pass it; and then we were going to get married.  My gasp was audible.  We were? I was surprised at the matter-of-fact manner he said it.

Conventional wisdom holds that men are afraid of commitment; conventional wisdom did not include my boyfriend, apparently. He wanted to marry me.  He had a time frame for when we were going to get married.  It was a matter of fact for him. That’s why I gasped. He looked at me, trying to gauge if I was teasing him.  When he saw that my surprise was genuine, he said he had always thought of me as his wife:  he had not kept any secret from me and had always laid bare to me his mind. All the time I thought he was just being nice he was, in fact, treating me as a man would treat his wife. The wedding was just a formality, he said.  Since I was training to be a lawyer, I was getting good at cross-examination; I asked: if a wedding is a mere formality, why didn’t we get married right then?   Why wait until after I take the Bar?  He laughed.  He said my dad would kill me.  I corrected him and said, no, my Dad would kill him.  He shook his head and said if we married now my Dad would know it was my idea, not his. I was impulsive, he was sedate. He was right and we both laughed. Nothing more was said about that.

In my last year of law school, while taking review classes, I asked him when exactly he intended for us to get married.  He said after the results of the Bar came out in April 1995.  I could be a June bride, he said. No way, I said.  I wanted to get married right after I took the Bar.  I wasn’t going to wait for the results. Waiting for the results would be nerve wracking.  I wanted to have fun and do something fun while waiting for the results. He was afraid I’d be distracted from review.  I was hoping for a distraction: something else to think about, some incentive for all the privations I was putting myself through for the Bar review.  A wedding and married life seemed like good enticements for me to study really hard, I thought.  He laughed.  Nothing more was said about that.

In January 1994, he took me to the Manila Hotel and booked the function rooms.  We were going to be married by the Rev. Ben Abante, Sr. at the Manila Hotel on November 26, 1994. We both wanted a small wedding just in case my Dad or his mom threw a fit.  The Rev. Abante, Sr. was my father’s friend: he would keep my Dad on his best behavior.  There would be solemnity and dignity.   I wanted neither anger nor disdain on my wedding day.  My brother will play the wedding march.  My sister will sing O Perfect Love.  My friend from law school, Kay Uranza, and the Assistant Pastor at Project 8, Pastor Felizardo Abanto, will be our witness.  Lanly’s nieces will be bridesmaids; his nephew will bear the rings.  I wasn’t Catholic so there would be no cord, no candle.  Neither of us was pagan so we had no arrhae.  Our wedding would be a straightforward and matter-of-fact affair.  We just needed to observe the legal formality required by law.  There would be 25 people all in all.  If we weren’t Baptists we’d have been married before a judge at the city hall.

On the night of my graduation from the College of Law in March 1994 he was there with my family. He gave me a pair of diamond earrings for my graduation.  He told me to hang on in there.  Later he bought me an exercise bike so that I can still get exercise while I was reviewing for the Bar.  The engagement ring came in June.  It was platinum, not yellow gold, just like I wanted.  The diamond was set deep into the ring, just like I wanted.

Eighteen years later I am still married to the same man.  He is often in a quandary about me these days.  I am peri-menopausal.  This year, I thought I wanted us to have breakfast in Tagaytay and have lunch at Sonja’s Garden for our anniversary.  Or,  we could have a nice dinner at the Manila Hotel with the kids.  He looked at me in disbelief.  Was I getting all romantic on him after eighteen years? No, I said.  I want to go on a long drive.  If we didn’t have work and other commitments, I wanted to go see Vigan.   He was wondering what happened to me all of a sudden: I used to hate production numbers.  I said I was beginning to get restless with the routine.  I wanted a change of scenery.  He didn’t say anything.

Last week, we were both scheduled for the usual blood chemistry and ultrasound examinations.  As we sat at the out-patient section, he saw an office mate from the Landbank.  He was there for tests, too.   All his friends say one of two things when they see him: “Masaya ka sa buhay mo, ano?” or “Hindi ka nagbabago.” To these comments, he invariably points to me and says “She’s fourteen years younger than me.” He smiles and he leaves it at that. I thought he was just being witty. It never occurred to me that he meant it.

At the end of that day we were both sore from being probed and pricked; we lay in the darkness, frazzled.  He asked me if I really wanted to go to Tagaytay.  And I said no. What I really want is to be a happy wife, not a merry widow. We were both quiet after that.  Nothing was decided.   Our anniversary would fall on a Monday.  He had an appointment with his cardiologist later that afternoon. I have an appointment with a client. The kids have school and they have prelims on Wednesday and Thursday.  It would be a hectic week. He asked me again about Tagaytay.  I said I didn’t feel like celebrating. He looked at me like he was seeing a stranger.  I often see him looking at me, wondering.  I am menopausal. I am changing.  I don’t know, I cannot tell if I am changing for the better or for the worse.  And it often scares me. I’ve never been demanding before and I didn’t want to start now.  But I also feel like time is running out.  I feel restless and tired all at once.

The next day, he was snacking on lettuce leaves, watching TV after clearing his desk of papers for signature.  When I came in (I had just finished pounding away at the keyboard), he offered to share with me the bowl of lettuce he was eating. I took the leaf he handed me and ate it. I don’t think I even said thank you.  Soon there was only one leaf left in the bowl.  It was a big piece. He tore it in two.  In his left hand, he had the tough stalk; in his right hand, he had the sweet crisp leaf.  He handed me the leaf and he ate the stalk.   I started sobbing.  He was surprised, panicked at my tears. I was sobbing because he gave me the best part of his snack.

For the eighteen years we have been married, he has done exactly that: he had given me the best part of everything he had. The years I knew him before we were married, he had done exactly that, too: he gave me the best part of who he was.  He thinks of me, thinks of my comfort. Lately, he’s been acting more like a boyfriend than a husband: he brings me to my class and picks me up.  He gives me presents for no reason. As I lay there sniffling, I decided, I don’t need Tagaytay or Vigan.  He’s the best part of the past eighteen years. He has been with me all along. Thank you for the friendship of 34 years.  Thank you for the love of a lifetime. Thank you for eighteen lovely years. And here’s to 18 more…..