What Made 1950s Housewives So Miserable

“Darling, don’t forget your lunch pail—”

“Cool it Barbara, this harping is uncalled-for first thing in the morning.” Charles continued his lecturing. “I have a busy day at the office. A man, he should have peace before he goes to work. You don’t know how lucky you have it here.”

Thoughts rushed through my mind, although I could not catch them. I watched him heading towards the door. Charles grabbed his lunch pail and delivered a pronounced sigh. He clenched shut his eyes, and he shook his head in an over-the-top peacock display of annoyance. Nifty, no sweat. This wasn’t my first rodeo.

I make fun meals daily for my sprouts, my house is nearly spotless, and I’m tirelessly keeping my home smelling lemony fresh. He enjoys me wearing the reddest of rouge on my lips. It’s the never-ending requisite that I would be pleasing to his eyes.

They strongly recommended these impossible standards in all the latest women’s magazines. I keep them neatly stacked on my coffee-table.

To keep up the illusion that all of this was easy or came naturally, I was readily prescribed “Mother’s little helpers.” The medical columns in my home journals told women that these pills were the cure for what ailed us. If you were frigid, this would be the fix.

These helpers righted nothing. What I wanted was my old job back. I’m no good at fulfilling this position as the happy, reproductive homemaker. Therefore, I will not encourage my daughters to follow in these footsteps of mine someday.

Charles will have to shake his head anew. Because he will not come home to a hot meal tonight. It’s high time he realizes privilege is being born a man. I’m not the lucky one.