Intermezzo, by Martha Thomases – Brilliant Disguise

July 18, 2009 Martha Thomases 5 Comments

This week is like something you read about in the women’s magazines they keep at the nail spa.  I’m in between last week, when I was being a dutiful daughter in Florida, and next week, when I’ll be a doting mom in LA and a glamorous working woman in San Diego.  The Ladies Home Journal, Redbook, and loads of other publishers made a fortune out of appearing to reconcile these sometimes contradictory obligations back in the day when people read magazines by choice (and not because they were getting their nails done and forget the Kindle). 

When I was a baby feminist, we called this condition the Sandwich, because there are people both older and younger than you making demands upon your time.  I never liked that term.  If this is a sandwich, what am I?  Am I peanut butter and bananas?  Am I smoked turkey with a nice Dijon mayonnaise?  Am I mozzarella, basil, and sun-dried tomato with a drizzle of olive oil? 

Excuse me, I must go see what is in the refrigerator. 

No, I am none of these things (nor did I stock up on any of them the last time I was at the store).  And members of my family are neither a  hearty rye nor focaccia.  My work is not a pita. 

(Maybe there’s a decent delivery menu in the kitchen drawer.) 
 

It is true that, in our society, women tend to feel more obligated to take up family responsibilities.  Combined with feminism and the economic factors of the last 40 years, middle-class women also felt obliged to work “outside the home” full-time (poor women always worked at jobs and took care of their families, but they didn’t count because they were poor and advertisers weren’t trying to reach them).   When all these elements demand our attention at the same time, it’s easy to feel stressed out and cranky. 

When I feel that way, I try to remember that I’m really, really lucky.  I have a father.  He loves me, and he’s still funny and sharp.  Many women my age don’t have that.  My son at least pretends to enjoy spending time with me.  My husband doesn’t feel neglected when I jet around and come home tired. 

These thoughts don’t make me feel better, but they do make me feel guilty enough to stop complaining, at least out loud. 

This week, rather than a sandwich, has felt like a hammock.  I’ve been getting ready  to brave the convention center and act like a grown-up.  I’m psyched to see friends I only see at events like this, even those  who live in New York and you’d think it would be easier to see them on the street or something.  I’m recovering from sleeping poorly because I had to listen for emergencies, and getting ready to sleep poorly because of the change in time zones.  I found an awesome dress and shoes to wear dancing to Michael’s party, assuming I’m invited and anybody wants to see the crazy old Jewish lady dance.. 

Also, remembering why one has a husband can be big fun. 

Media Goddess Martha Thomases will listen to suggestions for her nail polish color, but only for the toes, and only before Sunday.