You've been ninang-ed!

I was just 35 when I was first slapped with a wedding ninang assignment. I thought, Yikes, me a godmother? Like those with the wildly poofy bouffant dyed the wrong shade of brown and in a one-size-fits-all suman gown made of piña? Me? (And here I thought I had sufficiently covered my wrinkles with night cream.)

Alas, I couldn't say no, can't even think it, not without my mother's doomsday prophecy that it is bad luck to reject a ninang invitation. I should've asked her who would earn the bad luck: me or the couple?

Besides, I love the couple, especially the groom, my nephew Jimi, who's now finishing his orthopedics residency, and there was no saying no. No.

So I lost weight and bought a stunning gown--too stunning, said my brother's friend, who chided me for wearing a dress more lavish that those of the entire entourage combined. Heck, I was determined to look "too young to be a ninang."

But something in me is probably ninang-like because since then I've had six ninang assignments in the last five years: three from Jo's side and three from mine.

I've manufactured enough equanimity to find the humor in all this, as well as gained the requisite weight and wrinkles for the job. (Yes, dear, that's why this blog post has no photographs.)

I'm changing my night cream.