GIGI GOES GAGA

THE MARRYING KIND

I believe in the institution of marriage -- so much so that I married twice.

I'm being serious here, even if once in a while I'm wont to quip to my friends that my history also makes me a marriage expert (I'm not, although I think I give terrific relationship advice. Not the same thing, but that's a topic perhaps for another day). Despite having had the optimism and conviction to marry twice, I'm definitely gun-shy about saying vows one more time. In the meantime, I continue to believe deeply in love.

I'm about to say something I'm going to get slammed for: I don't think everyone's meant to get married. I also believe there's nothing wrong with those who prefer not to be; they're not necessarily selfish or self-absorbed, or damaged goods in any way. The institution -- along with everything that comes with it such as the roles, norms, and expectations ascribed to husbands and wives by themselves, others, or society in general -- simply doesn't suit them. So why should they be expected to even when they don't really want to? Why should they be forced to and thus be set up for failure? Why are we told that we can't fall in love and have sex unless marriage is in the picture? And, most importantly, why are we all expected to get married, in a way that if we don't then we're flawed or cursed or less than perfect?

Just fairly recently I was enraged when actress Natalie Portman was likewise slammed by a radio host and a politician for describing her pregnancy as a gift from her fiance Benjamin Millepied. The radio host stated that a better gift would have been marriage instead, implying that the happy expectant mother managed to get only second best. Although Portman and Millepied plan to marry, the presumption that she needs a ring on her finger to complete her happiness borders on misogyny, I feel. I mean -- really -- Portman is 29 years old, highly educated, intelligent, successful, and wealthy beyond the reach of most women (and men) in the world. She can take care of herself and her baby, thank you very much.

In my life I've met several people who might have been better off not getting married; a few would have done the world a favor by simply staying single . One, for instance, was a lovely, funny man who once dramatically proclaimed that he loved me. Unfortunately he loved other women in the same way at the same time -- that's just the way he was, one was never enough for all the love he had to give, he'd probably say. Eventually he got married but continued to have liaisons with other women before, through, and after the wedding and children, even as his wife threatened to leave him if he didn't stop his shenanigans.

I also have many friends who don't plan on ever getting married. One told me the story of how in grade school his teacher said that not everyone would, and as soon as he heard this he knew he was one of those she was referring to. I also have girlfriends my age who simply prefer their own private routines to sharing their spaces with someone else daily. Yes, they all are quite content with their decisions, happy even, and lead full lives spent with family and friends.

Marriage is both a choice and a decision, not to be taken lightly. Assuming that getting married is something we're all supposed to do and so we do it IS taking it lightly, I believe. But here's what I also believe: that adults who want to get married, who choose it because they love a person deeply and want to spend the rest of their lives with that person and build a life and family (even of two) together, should be able to. You know what I'm talking about here.

I believe in love, I believe in marriage -- but for now I choose love. And if one day I choose marriage again, you'd better believe it's because I'll remember all the reasons I don't today -- and decide that I want it above all of them anyway. And also because I'm fortunate enough that I can make that choice, especially because so many people around me are still fighting for their rights just so they can.

WHEN A DOOR CLOSES

The last time I caught a glimpse of my front door was through the empty spaces between the plants on the hanging window box and the pots on the ground. It was the exact way I'd viewed it for years, except for one difference: I was never going to see it again.

I'm thousands of miles away from that door that used to open up into my home. This time I'm in Manila, in the house I grew up in. I'm starting my life over where it once began, until I get to move into the next place where I get to open and shut the door into my own space again.

I've moved many times before, but this is only the second time when I've had to detach from everything I loved about my home in order to let go and move on. In my mind I can still see the lush garden I created out of the sandy soil, as well as the exact spot where I typed all my other blog posts save this one, and the indented space on the chaise where my beloved Boo used to take her catnaps until the day she shut her eyes for the last time.

It's just a house, I kept telling myself for months, over and over again until I believed it completely. And I suppose it is, especially now that I've stripped away everything I once loved about it; I've stored, shipped, donated, given, or sold them all. On the plane ride over here, I had to fill out an immigration form that asked for my address back home. I paused for a few minutes, not knowing what to write. And then I scribbled what I've written countless times before, almost certain it was the last time I was going to write it down again. But never to be forgotten, for sure.