A cardinal rule in marriage is that a husband should not have as much cleavage as his wife.
But before images of my exposed seven-inch-long chest hairs burrow themselves into your brain, I would like to share with my three female readers what I have gleaned from the many counseling sessions I have held with my married male friends. And this is what they describe as “groom reconditioning.” (There is also a less politically correct terms to describe this type of conditioning, and this term involves a female body part and an implement of torture, but I will not use the term for fear of reprisal.) Groom reconditioning is a gradual and systematic process of dismantling, stomping and firebombing any beliefs that you may have held sacred in your single life. More importantly, this type of reconditioning is an important component for a healthy marriage. My dad told me that if he had been reconditioned prior to his own marriage, then he would probably still have a full head of hair.
For example, when I was a non-engaged bachelor, my holy trinity of bosses was (in no particular order) my mom, my yaya and my girlfriend. But once that ring finds its way onto my finger, my holy trinity will turn into instant sacrilege (I’m really sorry, yaya). At that point, the only boss I will have after saying “I do” is the one who will let my DNA intermingle with hers without having to sign a quitclaim and waiver form.
Groom reconditioning can start off with something very basic, like your health, for example. When I got engaged, I gradually discovered that the quality of my health was no longer solely my concern. Normally, my fiancée wouldn’t be that concerned over the state of my health because I am an ovo-lacto vegetarian. What this means is that, aside from a heaping serving of grass with my meals, my diet consists mostly of tofu. Recently, she has grown rather alarmed over a spate of reports that soy contains a large amount of phytoestrogens — a naturally occurring chemical in soy that mimics estrogen, the female hormone — which could potentially interfere with my sexual programming. “My princess, don’t worry,” I assured her. “Ever since I started taking soy, I’ve only had to wear a training bra.”
But even when I swore to her that my current man-boobs were purely the result of my previous exposure to weight training, she nonetheless banned me from further tofu consumption. “Only one of us,” she reminded me, “should be capable of breastfeeding our future children.”
So I have voluntarily torpedoed tofu from my diet, and have resorted to sucking on rocks for protein and inhaling Metro Manila air for flavor. But I am perfectly fine with pebble munching as long as we were both healthy enough to help quadruple the Ledesma family tree. However, this also begs the question: How can we make sure that we are both healthy and that our equipment is in working order without violating the advice of our parish priest?
Although I do not want to go into detail (as many adolescents may be reading this column), I assured my fiancée that I could periodically check if my equipment was well lubricated (this self-check has been perfected by many adolescents and Men Who Have Had No Girlfriends Since Birth). Given this, she bribed me with comic books (or, in government parlance, she gently persuaded me) to join her for a checkup with her gynecologist. But I suspect that this visit was prompted by her suspicion that I may have already sprouted female body parts. It was either that or she thought I was pregnant.
While my results from the gynecologist are still pending further investigation, another aspect of my pagan bachelorhood that I have had to recondition is my hygiene. Or what passes for it. After all, for 30-odd years, I have taken care of myself. And, as you can imagine, I didn’t do a very good job of it. (Why do you think I keep talking about my yaya?). When my yaya goes on vacation, civilized living takes a vacation along with her: my underwear becomes recyclable, my bed sheets are not changed until dust mites start to form their own civilizations, and my banyo is not cleaned until crystalline structures form at the foot of my toilet bowl. This is because, as I have habitually explained to my fiancée, hygiene is a conspiracy dreamed up by multinational companies. We men need to stay a wee bit sweaty and smelly because it allows us to cultivate the smell of our own pheromones — chemicals secreted from our sweat glands and other barely viewed body parts that keep us attractive to the opposite sex. “You need to take in my natural aroma, my princess,” I reminded her while presenting my unwashed armpit to her nose. “So you will know that I am good enough to be your mate.”
However, because I love my fiancée and I would like her to be conscious for most of our married life, I have reluctantly given in to that multinational conspiracy (damn you, anti-perspirants!). Imagine: we have to floss, gargle, brush, wipe, flush, shampoo, soap, rub, scrub, dab, pluck, disinfect and repeat. Every single day. Argh… I know, I know, my fellow Martians: good hygiene sounds like such a chore. But God bless my fiancée: she has found a way to keep me motivated. If I do not scrub my barely-seen body parts on a daily basis once we are married, then she will figure out a way to reproduce asexually.
And while I am currently busy finding out how to pluck and disinfect, I am still reeling from her harshest edict leading towards total groom reconditioning. My bride-to-be has made it unequivocally clear that I have to eliminate any and all traces of remotely pornographic material from my room. All of it. This includes my worn-out Betamax collection of George Estregan videos, my collection of unclothed Barbie dolls, and about a million of my brain cells. Then, after such offending materials are removed, she will have my room fumigated, exorcised and finally razed to the ground.
Never mind that I have painstakingly filed, ranked, categorized each and every video, magazine and accessory I have collected since I was nine years old. Never mind the near-ingenious methods that I have developed to hide these materials so that my yaya doesn’t find them when she cleans my room. And never mind that these materials were much better instructors on the female form than any high school sex education teacher. What my fiancée doesn’t realize is the sentimental value that is attached to these materials. These materials were what kept me and my barkada company throughout those lonely teenage years when we were branded nerds and geeks and sex offenders. Doesn’t my soon-to-be wife understand that watching these videos help us relive the sins of our youth?
I even guaranteed to her that these materials were fairly standard pornographic fare. On top of your usual vulgarity, there was no funny business going on in any of my DVD scandal collections. Of course, there is nothing in these materials that will pass the scrutiny of the MTRCB. But neither is there anything in these materials that could incriminate me in court.
And I even have authority figures who can testify that there is nothing wrong with a little porn. Aside from my blissfully married desk editor Scott Garceau (Editor’s note: Hey! Don’t include me in your demented drivel!), there are other authorities like Tracey Cox, the author of the book Hot Relationships (of course it’s a real book!) who says that there is nothing particularly sinister about watching porn. According to Tracey, 95 percent of the time the only reason guys watch porn is because “it’s fun.” And I swore to my soon-to-be-wife that I belong squarely within that 95 percentile. Not to mention the fact that she should take the word of the author of a book called Hot Relationships. Porn, Tracey says, is just something that men do. Much like breathing or passing gas in a crowded elevator. But more importantly, these “questionable” materials merely address the natural human curiosity over a very natural act (and some slightly unnatural ones). And as an adolescent, one is naturally curious about what sex entails and porn certainly demonstrates the mechanics.
“Then why are you still watching porn!?” my fiancée berates me. “Are you still adolescent?”
“No, princess, its nothing like that. It’s because isip-bata ako.”
She took the Hot Relationships book and smacked me over the head with it. “If you want reading material, read this!” she howled while stuffing a research paper into one of my previously unoccupied orifices. According to David Morgan, a clinical psychologist and psychoanalyst at the Portman Clinic in London — which specializes in problems relating to sexuality — watching porn is a phase that is “transitional, like a rehearsal for the real thing. The problem with pornography begins when, instead of being a temporary stop on the way to full sexual relations, it becomes a full-time place of residence.” Dr. Morgan’s experience in counseling men addicted to porn has convinced him that “the more time you spend in a fantasy world, the more difficult it becomes to make the transition to reality. Just like drugs, pornography provides a quick fix, a universe people can get stuck in. This can result in their not being able to involve anyone else.”
“So, do you think that this guy is a better authority than Tracey Cox?” I asked my fiancée. Then she smacked me again in the head.
“But can’t I keep anything?” I pleaded. “Even the early George Estregan videos?”
“If you keep anything of your collection, then you will be rehearsing for the real thing for the rest of your life.”
Oh, well. It’s either I give it all up or I go back to eating tofu.