March 2003 Issue - Essay # 2
Stay-at-Home
Woman
By Helen Kay
Polaski
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Stay-at-home
mom? Was that what I was now? No
that didn’t quite sum it up. How about stay-at-home wife? I
scrunched up the side of my mouth and chewed on the only long fingernail
I had left. By all that was sacred, and for what it was worth, I was
trying to figure out what the hell I was these days, and nothing I came
up with seemed to fit the bill. Stay-at-home wife was closer, but not
quite right. Then it hit me: I’m a stay-at-home woman. That
was it. I tossed my pencil to the table angrily. I was a stay-at-home
woman. Our three children, ages 22, 20 and 16 really didn’t need me
puttering around the house for them. The girls were already living on
their own, and my son’s life revolved around the computer and war
games. My husband of 25 years, who worked an average of 6.5 days a week,
four of them 12-hour days if he could get them, could fend for himself, come hell or high water, so me staying at home amounted to a stay-at-home woman,
nothing more, nothing less. God,
that left a nasty taste on the lips. I
wandered over to my computer and opened up my latest document. Though I
freelanced for the local paper--the same I’d worked fulltime off
and on for the past 16 years--it no longer felt like work. The nominal
amount of money forthcoming was hardly worth the gas it took to travel
to the interviews and certainly not enough to compensate for the energy
I expelled on each article. The only reason I continued was to make
myself feel like I was still an important cog in the machine. I could
see being a stay-at-home woman if you had young children or so your
husband didn’t have to work nonstop just to make ends meet, but
neither was the case. My husband would work nonstop no matter what and
the kids were practically grown. It
hadn’t always been this way. This was just what I had been reduced to.
A few years before, cancer had ambushed our family. It got Mom when no
one was looking. That, in and of itself, was the hardest thing I have
ever had to endure. To make matters worse, the ice cream parlor I’d
owned and operated, Stella’s 16 Flavors, named after Mom, had to be
closed when a new landlord purchased the building I rented and turned my
life into a living hell. Compound that with the onset of menopause--an overload of stress and the outbreak of hives that would not go away--and you have one frazzled lady. Me. The
specialist said I was suddenly allergic to white flour, corn, red and
orange dye, molds, mildew, trees, grasses, melons, tomatoes, feathers
and was showing a reaction to a whole slew of other things. The doctors
were wrong. The hives had nothing to do with allergy problems, but
everything to do with overload. I wasn’t allergic to anything. I
was having a hard time getting over Mom’s death, and because of it, I
was stressed and stretched beyond my limits. I guess my husband thought
so, too, because he’s the one who decided I shouldn’t work. I
was surprised. For one thing, I always wanted to work. For another, we
had two kids in college. But at the same time, I was willing to try
anything. He said it would be perfect for me, I could write a little at
home if I wanted, but not take on too much and hopefully get the
allergies and stress under control. After about two weeks I felt much
more relaxed. The hives were infrequent. I was ready to return to work,
but when I suggested it to my husband, he had other ideas. We
fought tooth and nail--to the point of counseling. But once I gave in
and stopped thinking about returning to work, he mellowed out and seemed
pleased with everything. And
since the hives went away, how could I insist that my working had
nothing to do with my stress? So, I gave in, stayed home. After
a relatively short amount of time I had a serious case of mush-brain. As
I looked around the room, I shook my head. The disarray of books in my
office, papers everywhere, was not the kind of office I wanted to keep.
My workload was minimal, but I seemed to lack the drive to either do
more work or do anything about my lack-luster life. I
glanced out the window and watched as several young men unfolded from a
pick-up truck and with the agility of bodybuilders climbed to my
neighbor’s roof and began ripping old boards and roofing with ease,
their suntanned backs giving me an overwhelming view of muscles rippling
with every movement. A wave
of heat washed over me, and I quickly looked about the room as if caught
doing something I shouldn’t be doing. A small smile tugged at the
corners of my mouth--the first in days. Couldn’t blame that one on
menopause! Sitting
on the edge of my chair, I watched for a few more minutes. From the look
of them, they were in their early twenties. So young--too young for
me to be giving more than a cursory glance! But damn they were hot.
Forgetting about my ‘going nowhere life,’ I moved closer, peeking
over the computer monitor, watching the sun play across those biceps,
triceps and other muscles I hadn’t seen since my own husband was that
young. A
pleasant rush pushed through my veins as I remembered the way it had
felt to touch my young husband for the first time and wondered at what
lucky young lady accompanied these gentlemen when the roof was in place
and the job finished. Just
then one of the men turned around, and I looked him full in the face and
my stomach lurched. He'd graduated with my eldest daughter! My face flamed
and I nearly threw up at the implication that I, a grown woman, had
found one of my daughter’s friends hot. How embarrassing! How
ridiculous! How … my eyes strayed to the window … right on the money.
These young men were hot, damn it. They deserved the covert glances they
received. Turning
away, I grinned, my ardor cooling. Geez, Louise! I must be getting old
and senile not to have recognized the same boys I’d taken numerous
photos of on the football field and during various sporting events for
the newspaper. What
a wake up call. I felt more alive than I had in weeks. Refreshed
and somehow feeling much younger and vital, I returned to my keyboard.
In a heartbeat, I realized how easy it was to get turned on by a hard
body and wondered anew at how easily I’d let my own body go along with
all the other important things in my life, including my work. Running
my hand through hair that had seemed to gray overnight, I realized that
my husband and I were both were nearing 50, that place that made me
think of decrepit old codgers. Fear snaked along my spine and sent cold
goose bumps chasing each other down my arms and legs. If we didn’t get
ourselves in some kind of shape, and soon, we might as well be put out
to pasture. My
thoughts drove deeper into my sub-conscience, and I winced inwardly.
I’d put on some weight working in the newspaper office, eating fast
food on the run to the next news event, but most of my heavy-self had
come after I’d become an unhappy stay at home … woman. That
phrase just didn’t get any better no matter how many times I said it.
Nor did I like the reflection that looked back at me from the mirror
every morning. I
didn’t want this kind of life. This wasn't what I’d envisioned
myself doing when I was 46 years old. I figured I’d have several books
in print by now. As the implications of what was ahead if I stayed this
course broke through my defenses, I felt the buzzing at the back of my
head, indicating the onset of another migraine. Without giving it a
second thought, I moved toward the medicine cabinet in an attempt to
ward off as the pain before it began. Suddenly,
I realized my problem. These migraines were showing up more and more and
had started since I quit my full-time job. It was time to take my
destiny in my own hands--right after I swallowed a couple migraine
pills. I found a notebook and wrote down my goals--all of them, even
those I had never had the guts to write down before. Goal
Number One: I want to be
slimmer and more attractive. There
is no reason why I can’t accomplish this! I
added the phone number of the local gymnasium. While I was at it, I
opened my desk drawer and pulled out the bag of chocolate and
unceremoniously dumped it into the trash can. Boy, did that feel
liberating! Goal
Number Two: I want to have
two books in print before I hit 50. I CAN DO IT IF PUT MY MIND TO IT. Goal
Number Three: I want a cottage by Goal
Number Four: Clean up my office! Yuck. Theoretically,
the two books I hoped to publish could bring in a paycheck, royalties
put toward the cottage by the lake. And what better place to write than
a cottage by the lake! I
could write more and more books and bring in more and more royalties!
Grinning from ear to ear, I opened a blank page on the computer and
began to type. Since
then, I have had 74 short stories accepted in online magazines and
anthologies, and am much closer to my goals. I helped edit an anthology
and compiled my own anthology called "Forget Me Knots … from the Front
Porch,"
which hit the market in December 2002.
The
best news: I no longer have
hives. The worse news: my office is as messy as ever.
Perhaps some goals are just not realistic. As
far as the body thing -- I’m proud to say I have made progress. I
joined the gym, bought a family pass. My daughters and I go quite often.
And we’re convinced that as soon as we figure out we can’t go out to
lunch afterward, we’ll probably start losing some weight.
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Author's Biography Helen
Kay Polaski, number seven in a family of 16 children, is a E-mail Helen at Stellas16@aol.com
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Essay
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