Back on the Market in Stepford

Well, I just found out that a recently refurbished Stepford Wife is about to hit the market. A few months ago, I heard about her second breast augmentation, tummy tuck, full body lipo, and new Mercedes. I had assumed these improvements were her scheduled forty-five-year maintenance and done for the enjoyment of her Stepford Husband. It seems now, however, that this work was done because she was about to be put back on the market and everyone in Stepford knows you can’t get anything for a forty-five-year-old Stepford Wife unless she’s been properly maintained.

The other Stepford Wives are now busily discussing her options amongst themselves. Because this particular Stepford marriage lasted longer than ten years and she hasn’t worked outside the home in quite awhile, she will surely get some sort of spousal support on top on the $2100 per month in child support she’ll receive for her three children. Because Texas is a community property state, the couple’s assets will be divided down the middle and distributed once all the debts are satisfied. Sadly, the one million dollar home will probably have to be sold. However, there are places in Stepford, less desirable neighborhoods such as my own, where a Stepford Ex-wife can survive on her half of the marital assets and spousal/child support until she’s put back into to service again.

This morning, while instant messaging regarding the soon-to-be Stepford Ex-wife’s options, it occurred to me that while I feel really good about how I look, the fact remains that I’m not exactly in marketable condition. I’m much more like a well taken care of used car. I don’t have any obvious body damage from past collisions, my paint job still looks pretty good, and the interior is nice and clean. However, once you get under the hood, well, let’s just say I could use some engine work. Under the facade of my size eight clothing lie Spanx and a Miracle Bra that camouflage the hail damage on my rear-end and my flat A-cup boobs. So as to not be too hard on myself, I feel I need to mention that my tummy does not need to be tucked. I have been graced with a flat stomach and a small waist, so I try to emphasize that as much as possible without highlighting what is above and beneath. I’m concerned that at forty-one, this feature of my figure may soon begin to change. It is my understanding that as my estrogen levels drop with age, my mid-section will begin to thicken.

This displeases me greatly and I pray I’ll be able to fight off this assault with core training and yoga. So far, so good. I’ve made peace with my rear end. I could make it smaller and less lumpy, but I have decided I’m not willing to invest the time needed in knee-crunching aerobics to make that happen. I’m working on making peace with my breasts. There is no exercise available to alter their current state and augmentation is financially out of the question, so I’m left with the Miracle Bra, which is really not a miracle at all. It’s much more like a slight of hand than any real magic.

As I’m pondering these uniquely Stepford issues, it occurs to me that one of the reasons I’m okay with how I look is that I never plan to be on the market again. It’s not that I think my marriage could never end in divorce or that my husband could never die. It’s just that I can say with all certainty that if my husband spontaneously combusted at lunch today, I would never go back on the market. The thought of a man other than my husband seeing me completely naked is not one that I’m willing to entertain. Further, I do not want to see what is under the hood of any other forty-plus year old man ... ever. I’m not afraid of this as much as I am just uninterested. There are so many things in my life that I still want to do. So many areas of myself that I feel are unexplored. In the script I’ve written for myself, it’s just a given that if I ever find myself without my husband, I won’t go looking for another. Instead, I will go looking for other parts of me. I tell my husband all the time that I think I’m about one-third done with this life. And he responds the same every time: “You think so, Kristi? You think you’re going to live to be one hundred and twenty? Really? Really?” And I say, “Yep. Really. Yes, I do. I still have a lot to say.” And I’m sure as he looks at me and smiles, he is thinking, “Yes. God, help us all. Yes you do.”

The Guilt Cliff in Stepford

It’s the first week of summer camp for my soon to be second and fifth graders. And my mommy guilt is in overdrive. It happens every summer. The first couple weeks of camp are always an adjustment—the schedule, the location, what friends are going to be there, are the counselors nice, do I have to eat the food in the cafeteria, can I swim with a shirt, why do I have to share a locker with boy, why are Gameboys only allowed on Friday’s, and the list goes on and on and on.

As my children adjust a bit more each day, the Stepford Wife in my head repeats her mantra “... if you didn’t work they could be home having a leisurely summer like their Stepford friends.” And I tell this bitch, who continually refuses to mind her own Stepford business, “SHUT UP!” But in true Stepford fashion, she refuses and it becomes a matter of just waiting it out. Eventually my children adjust, dare I say even begin to have a fabulously fun summer, while their friends have begun to be bored at home and have grown sick of spending twenty-four-seven with their Stepford moms. Yes, this is truly the time of year I have the hardest time living in Stepford. It’s the time of year when I’m almost swept away by the tsunami of “you’re a bad mommy because you work” messages that permeate the very air I breathe.

More than just about anything in my life, I want my children to be happy. But damn it, more than that, I want them to know HOW to be happy. And I know from my own life, that learning how to be happy is HARD. Learning how to be happy is not fun and as a matter of fact, sometimes it down right sucks. However, learning how to be happy sure beats the alternative. I can say for sure, that I am happy. This has not always been true and I don’t like everything about my life, but I choose happiness each day. And that is how is it has to be. And that is how it has to be for my children too.

Will they rise to this challenge when they are adults? I don’t know. I pray they do. I pray that by constantly restraining my instinct to shield my children from every uncomfortable situation, that they will learn that their happiness is a choice and not a matter of their circumstances. I pray that even though we live in the sanitized world of Stepford, they will learn that all the material things they are blessed with and those that they are not, do not and cannot make them happy. I pray that by talking to them about politics, war, poverty, and the inevitability of death that they will see so much more to life than cell phones, Ipods, and Wii’s. I pray that by working they will see me as more than their indentured caretaker and provider of all their heart’s desires. I pray they see a work ethic and develop one of their own. I pray they see how hard my husband and I work at being married and that marriage is not a perpetual honeymoon, but a deep commitment to another person you may not always like, but hopefully always love.

Whenever I’m tempted to slip into helicopter-mommy mode, I ask myself exactly what I’m trying to accomplish with my children. I’ve asked myself these questions every hour on the hour this week trying to talk myself off the guilt cliff to which I’m clinging. Am I trying to create the “perfect” childhood where my children never have to struggle, feel uncomfortable, sad or upset? Do I never want them to have to do something they they don’t want to do? Or do I want my children to learn as many of the hard lessons of life while they are still under my protective gaze and I have the ability to intervene and counsel and give advice? Do I want my children to face their first set backs in life AFTER they are adults ,when the consequences are so much larger and the safety net is gone? Do I want my children to be self-righteously indignant the first time they get a boss who couldn’t care less if they want to work, arrive on time and have a good attitude?

I know by the end of the week I’ll have at least one leg swung on top the guilt cliff and by the end of the month no part of me will any long be hanging over the edge. I also know my children will have settled into their new routine, enjoyed some really cool field trips, and made some new friends. Their still small bodies will be tanned and their brown hair will be highlighted gold. They will have played approximately twenty soccer games, swam in an indoor pool ten times, and eaten four ice cream cones that came off an old fashioned truck. I think its going to be an okay summer in Stepford after all.

Rules of the Game in Stepford

OK ... let me just start by saying upfront that living in Stepford is not all bad. If it were, well, I’d be compelled to leave and after seventeen years, two kids, a yellow dog and house number three, I just don’t see that happening. AND, there are actually some really good things about living in Stepford. One of these things is its predictability. I like this ... I like things to be the same today as they were yesterday and I like knowing they will be the same tomorrow. For instance, I like knowing that it will take me exactly six minutes to get from my driveway to the church parking lot. This is important because I’m always running late and I hate being late for church.

There are two times a year, however, that I never know how long it will take me to get from my driveway to the church parking lot. One of these is Parrothead Weekend (when Jimmy Buffet is in town) and the other is Redneck Weekend (when Kenney Chesney is in town). Invariably, these two weekends are back to back. Invariably, I’m late for church two weeks in a row. I realize this is partially my fault for purchasing a house that has the Stepford Concert Venue in between my house and my church. However, the complete lack of knowledge, understanding, and appreciation by the Parrotheads and the Rednecks for how the game is played in Stepford got me thinking that perhaps someone (someone like me) should publish a Rules of the Game for our sweet little burb, a tourist guide, per se. So if you’re planning a trip to Stepford, take heed, and while in Stepford, do as the Stepford Wives do.

1) If one is good, way more is better. This applies to money, jewelry, houses, Hummers and Louis Vitton’s, just to name a few. This applies to just about anything with the noted exceptions of weight and gray hair.

2) The newer the better. This applies to everything listed above, but also includes wives and breasts. Wives would be listed in number one, except that it is illegal in Texas to practice polygamy—just ask anyone living in Eldorado at the moment.

3) Gadgets are good. I haven’t done the research on this, but I’m convinced that Stepford contains the highest per capita distribution of Blackberry’s, Bluetooth’s, and iPhones in the universe. My children are convinced CPS will take possession of them at any moment, because they are continually and purposefully deprived of cell phones of their own.

4) Bigger is better. This specifically applies to diamonds, houses, Hummers, and breasts. Under no circumstances does this apply to rear-ends.

5) Thou shall not approach the soccer field without coiffed hair and a full face of make-up. I violate this rule weekly, so I can convey to you with confidence that if people pretending not to know you hurts your feelings, you should not attempt this.

6) If you choose not to drive an SUV, a Mercedes or BMW sedan are the only acceptable alternatives. Stepford Wives live under a carefully crafted set of myths and one of those is that driving a mini-van will make you fat. Having driven a mini-van for the last nine years, I purport to have busted this myth. I believe there are those in Stepford who would say otherwise.

7) If you work outside the home, never, ever, ever say while discussing the fact that you have an occupation other than motherhood that you “have to work.” This is a poor reflection on your Stepford Husband that directly implies that his earning power is not up to Stepford standards. You’d be better off discussing a deficiency of what’s in his pants.

8) If you don’t workout and it’s not obvious, just leave it at that. If asked what gym you belong to, just say you use your home gym, even if that really means your dusty treadmill, a flat exercise ball and couple of sad hand weights.

9) Thou shall not clean one’s own house. You also must be prepared to lament the difficulty in finding a good maid the way that your unmarried friends still living in the city lament the difficulty in finding a good man.

10) Jeans whose MSRP are less than $150 are unacceptable. If you need to buy them off eBay to defray the cost, please do so, but by all means keep it to yourself.

I’m living proof its possible to live happily in Stepford while violating the Rules of the Game. However, this path is not for the faint of heart, insecure or vain. And lest I be deemed a hypocrite, I confess I see myself in a few of the Rules. You can’t live in Stepford for as long as I have without at least a few things rubbing off on you.