The front page of every newspaper was ablaze with reports about something called Women’s Liberation. A woman named Betty Freidan had written a book titled The Feminine Mystique. In it she described the findings of her research, which clearly indicated that suburban housewives felt a dissatisfaction they could not fully articulate, but it was clear that they wanted and needed more in their lives than housework and motherhood.
“Housewives,” she wrote, “lowered their eyes from the horizon and steadily contemplated their own navels.”
Emotions were rampant. Women squirmed as they were forced to come to terms with their ambiguous feelings. Men perspired and loosened their ties as they pondered the implications and consequences of Ms. Friedan’research.
I had been meeting socially with a group of women for several years. We had always found comfort and support in each other and no topic was sacred.
On this particular afternoon – someone brought up the subject of Woman’s Lib. We had never discussed the topic before as we were accustomed to addressing realities, and the concept of women being accepted as equal was, until now, an elusive myth – a fantasy. Besides, if we dared to think of it as a reality then we might be expected to do things that could alter the chemistry of our marriages – of our lives.
Could we, as women, really have careers without being viewed as negligent mothers, and aggressive bitches? Could we be accepted as individuals with the same need for achievement and fulfillment outside the home that men had? Was there even a remote possibility that we might be taken seriously?
I was a compulsive housekeeper. Mind you I detested every moment of it, but I knew it was my job and damn if I wasn’t going to be the best I could.
Reading my first issue of Ms. Magazine caused bells and whistles to ring; one sentence in particular: If you are the only one to whom something is important, maybe it’s not really important.
I had never considered such a concept before, so I experimented by stopping my daily dusting and vacuuming routine, and switched to hand picking lint from the floor and occasionally blowing dust from furniture. I waited for repercussions, and to my shock…nobody said a word. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.
I reported this phenomenon to my friends and a heated discussion ensued:
“What am I going to do when the kids leave for college?” I asked. “My husband won’t allow me to work. He’s afraid it will make him look like a poor provider. Does that mean I’m destined to a lifetime of tennis, bridge and volunteer work? There has to be more to life than playing games and fulfilling other people’s needs. I have to know that my future, at least, will have substance.”
“I’ve always fantasized running a highly prestigious business, with my own hot male secretary, and an impressively huge desk,” said Julie. “I want to attend important meetings where I call the shots, because up until now my biggest daily decision involves meat loaf or lamb chops. I’ve changed my share of diapers and now I’m ready to change the world.”
Donna looked glum. “Well, I’d be happy if I could know what it feels like to start a job and see it to completion. Housework has no ending — ever.”
“There’s a far greater issue here,” Nikki emphasized, as she banged her sneaker on the kitchen table. “When I got married I not only lost my name, I lost my identity. I want to, once again, be seen as Nikki, an individual with her own ideas and talents, and not just as Robert’s wife and my Billy and Laura’s mother.”
“Well,” I said, “When I agreed to marry I had no idea that automatically meant putting my life on hold for twenty years. I need more. I need a reason to get up, get dressed and get out.”
By now we were incensed. My adrenalin was soaring and I hated for the meeting to end, but my watch indicated that the children would soon be home from school and it was time to disband.
I suggested we not wait a whole week to meet again. Instead, we should get together the next day to keep the momentum going.
Julie said she’d see how she felt in the morning. The weather report called for rain and her hair always frizzes when it rains.
Donna planned to do her nails, finish a terrific book she’d started and bake brownies for her son’s Cub Scout troop.
Nikki didn’t want to miss her favorite television soap two days in a row.
As for me, I guess I was somewhat relieved. I hadn’t realized what a toll the afternoon’s excitement had taken on me. I looked forward to spending the next day sitting by the pool.
After all, the Women’s Movement never said I had to work; it only said I had the right to work — if I chose to. And, for the time being at least, I chose not to.
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