Unemployed Again

Unemployed Again

Monday, October 19, 2009

The Stepford Wife

When I was a child, I assumed that when a man eventually proposed marriage to me, it would be the old fashioned way. He would have one knee on the ground, and the black velvet box outstretched in his trembling hand. He would have a speech prepared of course; and I would swoon with his declarations of ever lasting love. This scenario wasn’t my fantasy, really; I had just been conditioned to believe that this was the way things happened.

But when my marriage proposal came, it was me who was on my knees.

I was scrubbing the kitchen floor with a bucket of hot soapy water, a dab of sweat at each temple. The fact that the sight of me bent over, being a domesticated goddess, or a soapy slave, inspired this man to propose marriage might have been a red flag. Because I always knew that I could never be a traditional woman.

As early as I can remember, I didn’t want to have children. I remember boasting about this to my mother, to which she replied, “Oh, you’ll change your mind one day.” But I never did. I also thought it highly unlikely that I would ever be married.

But that day, as I rubbed a filthy washcloth over the linoleum, I agreed to be married.

I was only 19 years old.

My life changed overnight.

The life I imagined that I would lead would be one of a hedonistic writer. I wanted to live passionately; I wanted to live like the Beatniks did in the 1950’s. I dreamed of another literary movement, so I, too, could be a part of a sub-culture. I wanted to live in the bowels of an underground America, serenaded by jazz, sex, and poetry. I wanted the purple dawns and drugs that Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty knew in Kerouac’s “On the Road,” and just like Jack I wanted my own cross-country bohemian odyssey. I wanted to drive a vehicle like an unguided missile, my one arm waving free toward the sunset, over prairies and desserts and cities; my mind ripe with lusty descriptions of all of it. I wanted to frequent coffee houses with my writer friends, and smoke cigarettes until the ashtray overflowed. I wanted to drink one too many cappuccinos, and have zealous debates while delving into intellectual conversations about William Burroughs. I wanted to be free.

But the day I accepted marriage, my life took an awkward turn.

Suddenly I was elbow-deep in china patterns and choosing invitations and flowers. I was thrust into the role of a pink fairy princess; something I never wanted to be. I knew that most little girls dreamed about that time in their lives, but it wasn’t my dream. And I felt I had to pretend that it was.

This idea of being someone’s wife perplexed me. I didn’t understand how it was possible to leave my soul intact, without metamorphosing into somebody else’s idea of what I should be. I was too young; I hadn’t even become fully what I was going to be, and already I had to bend my will to another.

The first order of business was to buy me an engagement ring. My husband-to-be didn’t want to pick it out; he wanted me to choose my own so that I would really love it.

I was glad he did. I had no use for diamonds; I felt they were bourgeoisie. I wanted a blue sapphire in an antique setting; a ring with history, a ring which fed my soul. So my fiancĂ©’ took me shopping for just that. It took us all day, but finally I found a ring that I loved. The jeweler agreed to clean it and send it. I was excited about that ring, and could imagine wearing it for the rest of my life.

Two days later, my husband-to-be followed tradition, and did it “right.” After a wonderful dinner, he plopped down on one knee and brought out a little velvet box, and asked me to become his wife. But when I opened it, the ring I had chosen was not there. Instead I found a traditional engagement ring; white gold, with an enormous diamond that protruded so far from the setting that I was certain I’d put out someone’s eye with it. But worse, I had this dreaded feeling that there was a conspiracy going on, and someone was trying to drive me insane. After all, where was the ring I had chosen? And what was my expected response, was I to pretend I was happy and not mention that the ring had morphed into something hideous? It felt a little like the Twilight Zone.

“What happened to the ring I chose?” I asked.

“My mother thought it was improper,” he said. “She insisted you should have this instead. She said it was BETTER.”

Oh dear God. The MOTHER-IN-LAW.

The mother-in-law, as it turned out, didn’t like any of my choices.

The day I was sent out to register for gifts, a horrifying little ritual, I spent the day choosing practical arty pieces that I found aesthetically pleasing. I didn’t like the idea of telling people to buy me gifts, let alone dictating precisely what they should buy me. But this is what I was told to do, so I chose items I loved. My mother-in-law went back the next day, and changed every single choice I’d made; registering me for conservative china; something that might be found at a Presidential dinner. Ornate silver and ridiculously expensive crystal replaced my more moderate choices. And I didn’t know she’d gone behind my back until the gifts began to arrive.

I chose a rock and roll band for the reception that was to be held at a very hip location; the Bach Dynamite Society in Half Moon Bay. Unbeknownst to me, she canceled the rock band and ordered a sedate quartet. By then I was learning; and without her knowing or finding out, I rehired the rock band. The look on her face when the band came to set up at my reception was priceless. She told me the music I’d chosen would ruin an otherwise perfect day.

But the most frightening thing was the MOTHER-IN-LAW insisted that we marry in a Catholic Church. I had been baptized Catholic, that much is true. But it was only because in the 5th grade, when we all had to announce what church we belonged to, I didn’t have an answer. So I went home and insisted that my parents baptize me. Most of the children were Catholics, so that is what I chose. My baptism was almost humorous; I was an 11 year old girl, all dressed up in a white frock, standing in line with a dozen infants.

But other than not wanting to be embarrassed at school, my baptism served no other purpose; I did not want to be affiliated with any organized religion. The prospect of being married in a Catholic church frightened me. Even more frightening, was that I was sent away to live in a nunnery with nuns for a week, a time I supposed they hoped to brainwash me. I remember lying in my bed that first morning; a little cot in a chilly little room, and being awakened by a nun in a black habit. She told me the first order of business was to meet with the Father, where I would promise to have children and raise them Catholic. I didn’t plan on having children, and I sure as hell didn’t want to promise I’d raise them in a faith I didn’t believe in. But I was brought to a dark room and I was forced to agree to a falsehood; and to sign away my soul. I was being buried by a dark blanket of deceit.

My life had turned into a lie. I was a fraud. I couldn’t fight the establishment. I was a mechanical wind-up toy. Like a Stepford wife, I was being sent down an endless corridor of conformity.

I did end up getting my way on some things. I rejected the idea of a receiving line; after all, I wasn’t royalty, and I found the ritual pretentious. I refused to wear a veil; the roots of this tradition meant submission to the man, and I wasn’t having that. I wouldn’t let the priest say, “I now pronounce you man and wife,” but rather “husband and wife.” And my bridesmaid dresses were hand sewn from five different materials and lace; and my bridesmaids wore strawflower wreaths with long colorful ribbons in their hair. They looked like flower-children of the 60’s. I tried to hang onto who I was, but those victories were few and far between.

My first bridal shower was like an episode from a horror film.

A half hour before the event was to begin, I was ushered into a back bedroom at my mother-in-law’s house. There on the bed was an outfit for me to wear. It was a gruesome little ensemble; a white pleated skirt, white blouse, white hose, and white high heels. I argued vehemently; saying I was fine in the new dress I had bought for the occasion; but she wouldn’t hear of it. I dutifully changed, and then was led into a living room that was all white; white carpet and white couches; fake flowers and horrific paintings, like you might see in a hotel; and a far cry from the colorful artsy interiors of my childhood. We drank punch that contained no alcohol. We played inane dreadful little games. But worse than any of that, was that I did not know a single person there. Other than my mother and sister-in-law to be, the room was full of strangers; older women dressed tightly in provincial suits, wearing corsages.

I almost choked. “Where are MY friends?” I whispered.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll have another party for you. But these are MY friends. And they’re WEALTHY.”

It was a nightmare I feared I’d never awake from. I sat there with a plastered smile on my face, as I opened present after present; silver tea sets and crystal candy dishes, monogrammed towels and napkin holders from Tiffany’s. “And this is from....Mrs. Baker?” I’d call out weakly, scanning the crowd for a woman to identify herself. And when she did, “Thank you Mrs. Baker, it’s very lovely.” But it wasn’t lovely at all; I wanted to smash it all against the wall, rip off my white pleated skirt, and go screaming into the suburban streets half naked.

But it was the stationary I received from my mother-in-law which nearly sent me into a tailspin. It read, “Mrs. HIS NAME.” It was his name. It read Mrs. His first name, His middle name, and His last name. I was Mrs. Him.

“You know, I hadn’t really decided to take his name,” I offered in a feeble small voice. “I was thinking of hyphenating it, maybe, so I could keep my name as well.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother-in-law spat back. “OF COURSE you will take our name.”

My entire identity, at last had been stripped.

After the marriage, it only grew worse. I remember coming home from work one evening, and when I opened my front door, all of our antique and funky furniture were gone, and had been replaced with a hideous living room “set” of matching everything. “Your mother-in-law is certainly generous,” my friends would offer, as a way to console me. But to me, these weren’t gifts at all; they were manipulations and controls disguised as presents. She was trying to slowly alter who I was.

My evenings were spent having dinner at the In-laws, or at Lyon’s Club functions. My father-in-law was the Governor of the Lyon’s Club, and I was forced to endure meetings, conventions, and banquets; and I was paraded around in conservative suits and corsages, just like the women wore at my Bridal Shower. It was utterly void of color, of intellect, and of art. I was a smiling mannequin, and the person I knew myself to be was dying. I was dying a little every day.

I believed, for a time, that pretending to be something I wasn’t was the right choice. I thought maturity was about putting my own desires aside, and opting what is best for the greater whole. And for a time, I vowed to sacrifice my own lusty perspective in favor of what was expected of me.

My husband and I separated seven years later. I found a special peace in telling my mother-in-law that the primary problem in our marriage was her incessant interference. And once those words were finally uttered, I danced into the unknown; following an eccentric beat that I recognized as my own. I left my husband and took nothing; I left the china and the crystal and the property and the bank accounts. In fact, I was homeless for six months.

I had a post office box, and my mother-in-law sent me checks in the mail for a full year. I never knew why she sent me money, and I was so impoverished at the time, I didn’t care why. At the end of that year, she called me on the phone and asked me if I was done being a silly little girl, and when I was returning to my husband. I told her “never,” and I felt I had sprouted wings. The checks stopped. And I was free. I started to remember that purple dawn I had dreamed of long ago; the one that served as a backdrop to my life of poetry and non-conformity.

I often muse about children and young adults who give up their hopes and dreams in order to fit in. They are socialized before they are even aware of it; and they are conditioned from a young age to live someone else’s truth. Sadly, this often continues throughout their lives until they stand up for themselves, and actively seek to reignite the spark that society has extinguished. I believe the dreams we have about our lives are signposts to our authentic selves, and happiness is found in pursuing them.

I never wanted to be a fairy princess, draped in pink, forced to endure coffee klatches and idle chitchat. I wanted to be wicked. I wanted to be drunk with profligacy. I wanted my soul to burst with everything that it longed to express.

And although I am constantly tested, I make a vow and a promise to myself every day; and this is a vow, unlike my marriage vows, I try to honor. And that is to never be a fraud again. If I can stay true to that, I know my life will find the right course.
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"Let the beauty you love be what you do."  --Rumi

21 comments:

  1. Hey Cathy if you ever take that hedonistic literary tour- I'll be the driver. Keep those wings flapping you are fabulous.

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  2. I'm glad your stepford days are long over...
    You're a great writer, Cathy.

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  3. Thank you for speaking the truth, maybe others will mow be able to set themselves free.

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  4. I meant NOW not mow - why can't I spell ?

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  5. Another great one! I have read all your musings and have a hard time waiting for the next one. You have had a very interesting life and you are able to put it in print so the reader is looking for more. Looking for to your next one.

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  6. It takes years of distance to look back at these memories and find the irony and humor. I was also 19 when I married, (the first time)and my first engagement ring was the pop top off a beer can. How did I not see THAT as a sign! Like you, I was headed down the highway four years later, driving my old Dodge Dart, with nothing but my clothes, my daughter, and my sanity.

    This is a great piece of writing. I look forward to reading your future work.

    Ginger B.
    http://coppertopcollins.blogspot.com
    www.gingerbcollins.com

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  7. That was nice, I enjoyed it and I love your writing. I will see you on she writes.

    Priscilla M-Price
    http://priscillasinspirational.blogspot.com

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  8. It is really something how I've gotten to know you over the last couple months from reading your blogs. To say I had no idea the grown person you became, is an understatement. I only remember a funny little girl with curly blonde hair, and you're certainly a lot more than that.

    Please keep it up. I'm still loving every word.

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  9. I was hooked from the opening paragraph. You do know how to tell a story!

    Now to the story. Yes, we must all follow our gut and be honest with ourselves. You make a great case for that.

    The biggest problem with a pushy mother-in-law is usually the guy. Your fiance and then your husband did nothing to stop your mother-in-law from interfering with your lives. Basically, he was a momma's boy.(No offense) It's one thing to have a strong relationship with your mother, it's another to be controlled and manipulated by her.
    Women should look carefully how a prospective spouse treats his mother. He should be respectful and loving. But women should also watch to see if he can make decisions for himself.

    As an musician, you painted a very alluring picture of living the life of an artist. Had me salivating. Especially coffee, cigarettes, conversation and debate. (OK, no cigarettes) But for me, it's all about finding a balance.

    PS. I'm interested in other things besides just relationships and marriage, so feel free to keep me posted!

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  10. I am trying to imagine my Mother as Mother In Law. After reading your story, I am even more glad that I fled and insisted in my own way on having my own life, and I knwo the wonderful relationship I'm in now would never survive the kind of treatment you describe, the kind of treatment that would be unavoidable had I not escaped myself first before she and I committed to each other.
    Your writing is very compelling and thought provoking, I am looking forward to more.

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  11. I also choose the sapphire - diamonds are so overdone and their scarcity is false which angers the nerd in me declaring the value is far less than retail ;) I gotta get a life

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  12. Beautifully written, Cathy! Evocative and honest! I'm so glad you've reclaimed the life you've always wanted to live and have started writing. It's wonderful to have that free and wandering spirit deep down inside. All the pressures of conformity can't suppress it. It finds its moment and breaks out of its shell and flies free.

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  13. Hi Cathy this post has a resonance, I walked out after 17 years taking nothing but my clothes and my books.There is no point in living a lie.Simon

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  14. Whoa! This was powerful writing. I, too, was married at 19 and am now 53, so I remember a whole lot of what you mentioned. I was really fortunate, however, that my mother-in-law lived in Ireland and we had to visit her. I don't think she'd have been as cruel as yours, though.

    I'm glad to see you came through it all in one piece and can now revisit the experience sanely. Have you ever considered writing a novel based on your experience and maybe do something with the mother-in-law character that I'm sure you wished you could do in person? Just a suggestion.

    BTW, I'm still married to my Irishman, probably because we had no interference (other than MY meddling mother whom I ignored) and could make our lives the way we wanted. Although my mother got her revenge. When she died 5.5 years ago we moved to the country to take care of Dad, who is also now gone. And because of the housing market we can't sell HER dream Victorian, so I'm stuck living out HER dream retirement and not mine. It stinks!

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  15. Fun to read, but the writer should definitely not be serenading us with her claim as truth-teller (see 'Roma'), because a chunk of this is pure fiction. Made up. Hollywood. I know because I was there at this time. The emotional content of the piece has its own reality in Cathy's head, tho. I couldn't and wouldn't doubt that, and I'll keep reading...

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  16. I don't know who anonymous is, but I defy you to tell me what of that didn't happen!!!!! Maybe it's my X-husband? Hmmmm.

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  17. Oh my gosh, I thought my ex MIL was bad! I'd say sorry you had to live through this, but if you hadn't you wouldn't be the person you are now.

    Congrats on finding your own voice and living your dream.

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  18. This is the 4th or 5th piece of yours I've read, and I'M ready to marry you, Cathy! You know how to f'ing write, lady!

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  19. I too was married young Cathy (baby came at 19 and wed at 20). I know I certainly did not have the faith and confidence to embark on the life I wanted for myself at that time, but can happily report that 14 years later I am right in the midst of creating my dreams. Thank you for the reminder this morning that I am where I am...and right where I want to be, despite the challenges and seemingly slow pace.

    By the way...that comment by Anonymous was a little frieky. Kudos to you for approving it and commenting as you did. You know your own truth. That's all that matters.

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  20. Ahh now I understand how you could bear being homeless for six months rather than go back to your husband and MIL. Congrats for being strong enough to follow your true self.

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Me in Kindergarten

Me in Kindergarten