the women in The Estates had given up nearly everything that had previously defined them—their jobs, their non-mommy friends, their hobbies—in exchange for a big house in the burbs and annual trips to Tahiti. But all the status in the world couldn’t hide the fact that these women were prisoners in their own lives: Some even had to ask permission to go out at night, and when their husbands were with the kids, both spouses referred to it as “baby-sitting.”
Some of the husbands traveled more than half the year, and when they were home, they were often mowing
the lawn or golfing. Meanwhile, their wives dutifully kept the home fires burning. Many of my new friends were lonely and sad, and others had that sleepwalking thing going on, smiles plastered in place. Wasn’t this the life they’d fought so hard for? Yet they had to smile to hold it all together—and some of us had to wonder how we’d ended up here.
“The housewife is more an invention of privileged people in ranked societies than a natural role of human animal,” writes Helen Fisher in Anatomy of Love . 1 It certainly felt like an undesirable, false role to me at the time. And while I’d like to believe that the modern-day housewife role is somehow based on good intentions, it’s just not working out for most women. Now what? they too often wonder. Nothing staves off reality like a damn good brownie.
What about me? was the question I was asking myself. The trade-off was supposed to be some divine sense of fulfillment that only wifedom and motherhood could bring me, but, despite my high hopes, I was coming up short.
I know some women can manage this lifestyle, and I understand that some parts of it can be very rewarding. But at what cost? Certainly, it varies from woman to woman, and for some, it’s not even a question. But, looking at the preponderance of women in my new community, I couldn’t help but wonder how I’d ended up in Stepford, surrounded by so many unhappy women who shopped and gossiped to fill their tiresome days. From my vantage point, there
seemed to be two types of women in The Estates: those who had forgotten who they were and what they wanted, and were resigned to that fact (even content about it), and those who were unhappy but saw no alternative. When they complained about their situations, they often followed by saying, “But it is what it is.”
“I signed up for this, I guess,” they’d tell me. They’d lament the fact that their husbands didn’t want to have sex with them anymore, or that their husbands wanted to have sex too often. Some talked about their spouses’ wanting to do “weird” stuff. When I listened to what some of those requests were—things like spanking—I actually found them fairly benign. One woman confessed that she was mortified that her husband had asked her to try some new positions.
“Why don’t you want to try it?” I asked. “What do you mean, ‘why?’”
“I mean, how do you know you won’t like it?” “It’s what sluts do,” she pronounced solemnly.
“Really?” I replied. I must have sounded a bit too in- credulous, because she raised her eyebrows and gave me an expectant look.
“I like to have sweet, romantic sex, too,” I told her, “but I also like to talk dirty and play rough sometimes.” I wasn’t totally alone among my new friends, I soon found out, as sex turned out to be one of our most frequent topics of conversation once we opened that door.
i did become very close with three or
four women in the neighborhood, particularly with one named Samantha. She had a great sex life with her husband, Clayton. She talked about the wild places they’d done it, and how they took vacations just to have sex without fear of being interrupted by one of their three kids. She would become one of the few friends with whom I felt connected enough to discuss my ideas about open marriage. She admitted she was attracted to other people, and her husband had told her on
Some of the husbands traveled more than half the year, and when they were home, they were often mowing
the lawn or golfing. Meanwhile, their wives dutifully kept the home fires burning. Many of my new friends were lonely and sad, and others had that sleepwalking thing going on, smiles plastered in place. Wasn’t this the life they’d fought so hard for? Yet they had to smile to hold it all together—and some of us had to wonder how we’d ended up here.
“The housewife is more an invention of privileged people in ranked societies than a natural role of human animal,” writes Helen Fisher in Anatomy of Love . 1 It certainly felt like an undesirable, false role to me at the time. And while I’d like to believe that the modern-day housewife role is somehow based on good intentions, it’s just not working out for most women. Now what? they too often wonder. Nothing staves off reality like a damn good brownie.
What about me? was the question I was asking myself. The trade-off was supposed to be some divine sense of fulfillment that only wifedom and motherhood could bring me, but, despite my high hopes, I was coming up short.
I know some women can manage this lifestyle, and I understand that some parts of it can be very rewarding. But at what cost? Certainly, it varies from woman to woman, and for some, it’s not even a question. But, looking at the preponderance of women in my new community, I couldn’t help but wonder how I’d ended up in Stepford, surrounded by so many unhappy women who shopped and gossiped to fill their tiresome days. From my vantage point, there
seemed to be two types of women in The Estates: those who had forgotten who they were and what they wanted, and were resigned to that fact (even content about it), and those who were unhappy but saw no alternative. When they complained about their situations, they often followed by saying, “But it is what it is.”
“I signed up for this, I guess,” they’d tell me. They’d lament the fact that their husbands didn’t want to have sex with them anymore, or that their husbands wanted to have sex too often. Some talked about their spouses’ wanting to do “weird” stuff. When I listened to what some of those requests were—things like spanking—I actually found them fairly benign. One woman confessed that she was mortified that her husband had asked her to try some new positions.
“Why don’t you want to try it?” I asked. “What do you mean, ‘why?’”
“I mean, how do you know you won’t like it?” “It’s what sluts do,” she pronounced solemnly.
“Really?” I replied. I must have sounded a bit too in- credulous, because she raised her eyebrows and gave me an expectant look.
“I like to have sweet, romantic sex, too,” I told her, “but I also like to talk dirty and play rough sometimes.” I wasn’t totally alone among my new friends, I soon found out, as sex turned out to be one of our most frequent topics of conversation once we opened that door.
i did become very close with three or
four women in the neighborhood, particularly with one named Samantha. She had a great sex life with her husband, Clayton. She talked about the wild places they’d done it, and how they took vacations just to have sex without fear of being interrupted by one of their three kids. She would become one of the few friends with whom I felt connected enough to discuss my ideas about open marriage. She admitted she was attracted to other people, and her husband had told her on
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