Hi Ho! Hi Ho! It’s off to work I go… Ever since I was old enough to earn some sort of money I did. Starting with chores and babysitting progressing into working 3 part time jobs while being a full time student with no less than 18 hours, to graduating and settling into a “normal” 40 hour work week. I sometimes in the past slightly, every now and then, for a brief moment in time pondered what it would be like to have pursued a degree in MRS instead of a BBA in Marketing and Real Estate. Well almost exactly two years later after first having that wonderment cross my mind, it happened. I entered into the Stepford Society: the world of the trophy wife or as I refer to my newly earned title: executive domestic engineer. I enjoyed it for a mere three weeks before I started to go crazy. I am use to moving at oh, I don’t know, 100 miles per minute. I was constantly doing something or going somewhere, projects and deadlines, schedules and routines, so ambitious that there was nothing you could add to my schedule I would not accomplish. The day I realized this new title fit me as well as a hotdog bun fits a hamburger was when my largest daily accomplishment was getting out of the dryer the same number of socks I put into the washer. I fully understand why many housewives are desperate. The hours are long (in fact, never ending), you become devalued and your work is underappreciated. Tasks are tedious, redundant and you have no intellectual stimulation from another adult until after 5 when you get to hear the grunt of how “work” went for your significant other and how tiresome the real world is as though you yourself were never apart of the workforce. And you don’t get a paycheck… you can’t even afford the “bla” part of Blahnik!
This new “career” is similar to how I once envisioned Corporate America: the title, the “luxurious” corner office with a view and paychecks so big my Manolo collection would need its own room. That too, turned out to be just a liiiilll different than I could have imagined; more like an uncomfortable chair that annoyingly rocked side to side in a cube surrounded by nothing by gray walls, and I cared more about getting up to go to the bathroom than the actual paycheck or benefits. It was never more obvious to me how far Monday was from Friday and how close Friday was to Monday.
I have no desire in my heart to live in a Danny Tanner universe where Tuesdays comprise of vacuuming and Wednesdays are delegated to organizing sock drawers and doing laundry. This is neither therapeutic nor enjoyable to me. I will do these things only because it is necessary, but don’t want to feel it is a part of my job description.
I misplaced my ability to “do it all.” This “executive domestic engineer” business is not easy, but I am about to take on the project: Operation Homeowner. It is imperative that I allocate time to not only wear the hat of “trophy wife” but also that of painter, organizer, insurance/satellite/electric negotiator, decorator, cook (my aprons are calling my name!), and party hostess. [the last three I don’t mind in the least]
As Mae West once said, “I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” I loved being domestic before I was forced to be domestic daily. I don’t want to feel my worth and value to be assessed by how well I can maintain a cleaning schedule or on my ability to make a bed, load and unload a dishwasher, and vacuum in straight lines. Perhaps one day I will change my mind when I have a family or 7 dwarfs to take care of, but right now this lifestyle is not my favorite.
I want a schedule, a reason to get out of bed, a place to dress up— let’s face it, the dishwasher doesn’t appreciate pearls, heels and lip gloss. I intend to change my current situation. However, since it is possible the next door that is opened could turn out to be a witch with a disguised poisonous apple, I am choosing to learn to appreciate my title while I have it. I am also not overlooking how grateful I am that being an “executive domestic engineer” is an option while I find out what career path is the best fit for me. The Manolo Blahnik of careers. Notice the wording… I don’t want a job. I feel j.o.b stands for “just over broke” and that is not my favorite either. I already experienced this first hand. It was about as fun as scrubbing a toilet without pink rubber gloves. I will always be an “executive domestic engineer,” but by choice. I also might be Snow White again, but probably only on Halloween.
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