I am a defective woman. I was born without several gender defining genes; the House Cleaning gene, the Shopping gene and, most devastating, the Motherly Instinct gene. Somehow I’ve made it through life without these components. Efforts to conceal or make light of these deficits have often lead to deception, embarrassment and, yes, even an occasional lie.
Back in the forties, I watched my mother sing as she crouched on all fours and scrubbed the kitchen floor. She whistled while she dipped clothes in liquid starch and ironed every single thing that came off the clothes line, including underwear and sheets that were so stiff they could stand by themselves. I felt great comfort knowing that one day I would carry on such womanly traditions.
But, something horrible happened a few weeks into my marriage. My tall husband discovered dust on top of the refrigerator and I was smacked in the face with the horrifying reality that everything in the house was supposed to be cleaned and I was the designated cleaner.
That same new husband opened his underwear drawer, sniffed each undershirt and pair of shorts and announced that they all smelled “sour,” so he tossed them onto the floor and insisted that everything be re-washed. Then he left for work. I, having already done laundry that month, had no intention of repeating the chore, so I picked up each piece of underwear, re-folded it, and placed it back into his drawer. The next morning when he again initiated the sniff test he asked, “Did you re-wash these?” Not wanting to lie, I simply said, “Do they smell sour?”
He re-sniffed. “No.” Then he put them on and left for work.
So much for the “Me Man, You Woman” hypothesis.
A number of years later I stood in a parking lot with my three young children and roughly one hundred others, waiting for them to board busses that would take them to eight weeks of sleep-away camp. I was shocked to see mothers weeping and hanging onto their youngster’s shirt tails, unable to say goodbye. It was then I knew something was very wrong with me. All I felt was pure unadulterated glee, as I bounced up and down, waved pom poms and cheered: Hip, hip, hooray! Children goin’ away. Soon as she gets outta’ here, Mama’s gonna play.
It happened again when they went off to college. I was puzzled when I listened to friends sob while they watched their college bound children pack. I had to grab one girlfriend by the collar, shake her silly and remind her of the time her son was caught smoking pot behind the police station, and her daughter came home from a party drunk, and her other son demolished a car she had for five weeks. I described the impending joy of doing laundry only once a week, sitting in the bathroom without the pressure of someone banging on the door to get in, cleaning the house, leaving for the day, and returning to find it exactly as she left it. I encouraged her to think about candle lit dinners and uninterrupted romantic evenings with her husband.
She ended up dumping her son on the college campus a week before registration.
Then there’s shopping. I like to think there are other women out there who also detest it, but if they exist I’ve not met them. I once had a friend ask me to go window shopping with her.
“I can’t afford to buy anything,” she said, “but, let’s just go look.”
Was she insane? Why on God’s earth would I want to press my nose against a shop window and stare longingly at something I had no intention of purchasing? That’s got to be right up there with the futility of buying a dress two sizes too small because I believe some day I’ll actually fit into it.
There is only one thing I don’t mind buying. Shoes. I still have the same pointed three inch spikes I wore in 1956 because I’m sure one day they’ll be back in style. I think the reason I enjoy buying shoes is because I don’t have to struggle to pull them up over my generous hips or down over my ample breasts. But, I suspect that’s about to change; I saw boots in Nordstrom’s the other day that came so high up the thigh, that the next step in shoe designs will surely include waist bands and buttons.
When that happens I’ll buy a pair to go with the dress I bought that’s two sizes too small.
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