Decorative womanhood

Sometimes it takes a lot of energy to care. I would genuinely like to care less. Unlike Winston I would crave the baubles of the office of decorative womanhood and in my fantasy world I would spend the day choosing sofa fabric and doing lunch with friends. Charming and entertaining friends. Not the ones whose husbands or kids are driving them mental, are ringing to tell me about the break up/down through they’re having with someone or something I don’t need to care about.  

I would be one of those women I admire; a floating, aloof island of nonchalance, someone who doesn’t have to write things on her hand in order that she remember them the same afternoon. Things like: ‘pick kid up from school’.

Someone who doesn’t need a diary because it’s just so great being flexible and ‘in the moment.’

I would also care deeply about skin products rather than fling the cheapest cream probably made from unfairly traded babies somewhere in Uganda into the trolley as I whizz past the wine isle where the small person last week suggested a Pinot Gris ‘because she knew I wanted to’ making both me and the demo lady think that perhaps I might have a problem. I would not care about politics. Or the environment.
I were a character in Animal Farm I’d be Molly. An indulged show pony; tricks for ribbons. I would guide writers from House and Garden through my house which would be full of tastefully arranged pieces of infinite interestingness contrived to elicit tales of intrigue and wonder. I would offer them coffee from civet poo or some exotic tea that no one has ever heard of. Actually my house does kind of look like a centre-fold for House and Garden. If they were doing a non-fiction piece about places that have been ransacked by child soldiers and then set up as Hippy Headquarters for the advancement of crochet rugs (sorry Nan.) Last time I checked there was a pohutukawa sapling actually growing from a windowsill - I could tell the House and Garden people that it was all part of the eco plan as I lounged against my designer worm

‘How come,’ said a friend recently, ‘other people seem to glide through life making everything look easy?’

I suggested that they might be really great actors or perhaps our self expectations are too high now we are supposed to look like models, have 5 children (preferably from 3 different countries) and make a short documentary film while redecorating the house according to much of the magazine fodder we love to read.

Berating herself for looking constantly like a ‘distracted mess on a mission’ she went on to say that she just couldn’t understand how come she couldn’t quite get it all together to glide through life looking like Beyonce and sounding like Hilary Clinton whilst baking macaroons in a whole NZ pink-aproned hottest baker scenario.

Can’t think.

Could have been the two toddlers she has or the autistic older child whom she has just taught to read despite the school and family telling her that would be impossible, or could it be her full time study schedule or the upcoming exams she needs to sit in order to practise? Could be her sick mother she’s been looking after or the advocacy work she’s been doing for other parents also battling with autism.

What my mate is missing as far as matching the high standards of perfect womanhood as set out by magazine land is; the staff. And an inability to care less. And there are lots of women I know who suffer the same malady. The working Mums who still run school gala committees or the bake sales for the sick friend with no funds despite having very little themselves. They could care less - they just choose not to.

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