Some stories have a sense of irony that can be understood by most.
There are other stories like the one I will share from Women Who Run with the Wolves that are generally ironic to many people, but piercingly ironic to me. I like those ones. They don’t make me sad or horrified. I don’t know why. My usual response is, “Ha.”
And since it’s almost Halloween, why not share a horrific story, right?
An intelligent and gifted woman told me of her grandmother, who lived in the Midwest. Her grandmother’s idea of a really good time was to board the train in Chicago wearing a big hat and walk down Michigan Avenue looking in all the shop windows and being an elegant lady.
By hook or by crook or by fate, she married a farmer. They moved out into the midst of the wheatlands, and she began to rot away in that elegant little farmhouse that was just the right size, with all the right children, and all the right husband. She had no more time for that “frivolous” life she’d once led. “Too much kids.” Too much “women’s work.”
One day, years later, after washing the kitchen and living room floors by hand, she slipped into her very best silk blouse, buttoned her long skirt, and pinned on her big hat. She pressed her husband’s shotgun to the roof of her mouth and pulled the trigger. Every woman alive knows why she washed the floors first.
When I actually have a child, or children, the last thing you will ever hear me do is complain. When you have to wait decades for the opportunity to have a life like that, the thought of complaining about any of it would seem pretty frivolous. What kind of world would we live in if everyone actually had to wait and work (and qualify, even) to be parents? I think about things like that…Happy Halloween!