About A Woman

For years now, I've been wondering who started the phenomenon that is the virtuous woman. That perfect, seemingly one-woman show in Proverbs 31, that is the bane of the female existence - at least those females who have grown up under any kind of legalism.

My high school proudly reared its' females under their "Biblical" notion that the only truely godly woman was a Proverbs 31 woman; to hell with the rest of 'em - literally. It was the standard by which each female should beat herself up and by which all females should judge each other. It was the standard to which any godly husband should have held their pretty, but prone to be wicked, wives.

Everytime I think about the garbage that they seared into my brain, based upon a convenient but incorrect interpretation of a wonderful passage that is meant to celebrate the strength of all women, my heart starts to ache in anger. Anger at my own teenage stupidity and anger toward their carefully disfigured truth. I feel like I should have been able to filter their truth from real truth or that at the least, somebody should have rescued me. Unfortunately, Proverbs 31 became a passage that ended up being used by me, and I would guess by many a female, to self-crucify spiritually, emotionally and by default, physically.

My Junior year, I was voted Homecoming Queen by my peers and while I have to admit that I accepted the part outwardly, I was very uneasy and highly uncomfortable at the time I found out that I had been nominated; it was an ominous feeling as they put the crown upon my young head. That was a tremendous and unfair amount of pressure to put on a teenage girl who knows nothing of life beyond high school. At almost 40, I'm just now beginning to understand all that would have to be sacrificed, in order to be that woman; and at almost 40, I'm just now wise enough to know that nobody should even try to live up to such a fantasy because it absolutely destroys the "alive" in your soul.

At 17, however, I had a good enough head on my shoulders to realize that I was NOT what the school had been shoving down our throats that week as the picture of a virtuous woman; there were only a few of us who were naive enough to think there was anybody out there like that - not even our own mothers. Nobody I knew could have attained such high degrees of perfectionism at just 17 years of age, but I guess I was the one they considered the best representation of who we were as a class. I didn't want the nomination, the crown or the pressure but I had been so brainwashed to obey, that I drank the Koolaid. I didn't know it was okay to question; that it was okay to distrust those who call themselves Christian; that it was okay to say, "No thanks, I'll retain my soul for the Real Deal."

Ironically, there was one girl in our class who was nominated along with me that possessed the essence of the virtuous woman, even at 16 or 17 years of age. She was mature beyond us all, I now realize; however, the school disqualified her b/c she chose to attend a church youth function over Homecoming. Now that is hypocritical-legalism in its' truest form; to discriminate against yourself, basically, and to be so blind, you don't see the idiocy in your actions. It's the most perfect self-portrait ever. Legalism painted itself that day.

By the time I started my Senior year, much of what these "godly" people spoke to us went into one ear and came out the other without so much of a jot or tittle phasing us. We were in a rebellion and rightly so. We had seen so much hypocrisy and holding of the Scriptures hostage to their interpretations, to suit their own agendas, that we literally rebelled. We made it clear that for our entire Senior year, we were there for our diplomas and nothing else; we weren't listening anymore. But just as music and images do a slow-burn into our subconscience only to covertly re-emerge later, so did the concept of the perfect super-woman that was pushed into our brains, year after year, as part of their original, Homecoming tradition.

Several years later, my life started out joyous enough because as a newlywed, my hubby was of course, Prince-Do-Nothing-Wrong, in my eyes. For my part, I knew I wasn't the perfect woman but subconsciously, I tried so hard to be. I tried to be a perfect wife, making a good home and life for us. The little squabbles came and went but this concerned me none. We floated along the first couple of years, boosted by a successful business and therefore a relatively easy life. We worked constantly and we were together constantly; our arguments were usually about putting too much pepperoni and cheese on a pizza. Life was bliss and I had no idea what was around the bend. I'd been setup for failure.

Well, it's dinner time.

See, I'm a cruel, wicked woman. :0)

Worst Day of the Year

First day of school every flippin' year.

I hate it. Call me a strangefellow because I like mingling about with my kids. Twenty years ago, I would have called my future self, weird.

I love having them home, arguing about whose boogers are bigger, complaining about chores, crying b/c someone shot 'em point blank in the eye with a water gun, having their friends over everynight, running up the snack food bill, renting chick flicks and sleeping 'til noon. Ahh, summer-summer, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo...

I'm in G's ear all the time about how the kids NEED three months summer vacation again; how I need three months of summer vacation again. Soon the dreaded book reports and math homework will start and I'll feel more burdened than I did when I was in school. Isn't that the ultimate irony? Who cares if my Mom wished my children to be downright, rotten little scoundrels when I was a smart-arse teen? That would be bliss to not have to be the responsible adult, making sure everyone's projects are completed on time (note, I didn't say in a timely manner - I've given up on that - we're a family of procrastinators) and grades are somewhat acceptable. It stinks up ten months of my life every year. Gerald totally agrees that the kids need the extra month but is mandated by law to provide so many days of school each year. We could get rid of Fall and Spring Break, he says, but I say, shut up! that's crazy talk.

I'm mopin' around the house, severly limited by the amount of clutter that is to be a garage sale next Saturday...to pay for the extracurriculars around here - like our bedroom and bathroom that we just gutted. Yep, been sleepin' in the ole' family room for two weeks, our fireplace mantel serving as a closet and the seven of us sharing two bathrooms. I'm not unfamiliar with bathroom sharing, for the better part of my life at home, five of us shared one bathroom; however, when the status quo has been a private, adult bathroom, it takes a little getting used to the kids' toothpaste all over everything, floss lying around the counter, floors wet and slippery, bar soap that's sitting in the drain, all spongy, shampoo bottles that are empty...again and pirate ships floating in the shower with you. Privacy is the least of my concern.

The worst part of the whole deal though, is that pretty much on a conistent basis, I get into bed and find cracker crumbs all over - those suckers ITCH. The kids apparently figured out that watching TV, while sitting in Dad and Mom's bed, was kickin'. So, while I've been at work and G's been at pre-planning, they've all been scrunched in, snug and warm, eating anything that crumbs and then later using the bed as a trampoline, to evenly spread the crumbs to spots that are inexplicably unreachable to adult limbs, until bedtime. So, you think you've got all the crumbs swept up, you're cursing the kids under your breath trying to come up with an appropriate punishment for kids that feel safe and comfy in your bed but molest it w/crumbs. You're exhausted, you wriggle in, adjust your pj's, turn over twice, get your extra pillow tucked under your armpit just right, tuck the sheets around you, get your tootsies covered, start to drift off and freakin', freakin', freak! You're crumb-scratching.

I'm not sure there is anything I hate worse than crumbs in my bed.

Except for, the first day of school.