Gosh, I hated home economics—I wanted to work with the guys, and I actually took my personally signed petition to the principal who looked at me as if I had two heads.
“Not possible,” was his edict, spoken without moving his lips. Little did I know that as I grew up, I would find a lot of men like my principal.
In protest, I bought a pattern and spent the entire school year sewing the worst apricot-colored jumpsuit ever created by the hand of man (woman). I wore it on the last day of school, and my sewing teacher avoided looking in my direction all during that class. As we filed out of class on that last day, she finally looked in my direction. I mouthed the words, “See, I should have taken wood shop.”
When I took Home Economics, the microwave hadn’t been invented, and TV dinners were the kind of stuff that was eaten only by old, almost-blind bachelors who didn't know how to boil an egg. Feminism was just an asterisk in Germaine Greer’s cranium, and independent gals like me who didn’t cuddle dolls (but who made her Barbie doll into a lawyer long before Career Barbie was invented) grew up very frustrated.
I knew my mother lived for fresh-smelling laundry and a kitchen floor that we could eat off if our dining room table ever collapsed. But I also knew there must be something more to being female than darning our husbands’ socks after the dinner dishes were done!
To this day, I cannot pass an ironing board without getting hives. I usually iron only the part of my shirt or blouse that will actually show. Once, when sitting with a client in his overheated New York office, I couldn’t take off my blazer because I hadn’t ironed the back of my blouse. He saw the sweat pouring off me. Instead of owning up, I said I was having early onset of menopause symptoms. (He raised an eyebrow skeptically at the 29-year-old sitting in front of him.)
The other day, while driving and listening to the radio, I heard an ear-opening show about anxiety disorders and how when people get stressed out, they go overboard on things, and this leads to more anxiety. The doctor being interviewed was talking about how anxiety-prone women actually start cleaning their houses to the point of worsening their feelings of anxiety. (I pulled my car over at a rest stop so I could listen more closely.)
This therapist said to stop cleaning! She said that once you free yourself from the everyday tasks that have to be done over and over again, you become a freer, less stressed person. I raced home and threw my vacuum in the garbage.
Like most red-blooded Americans, I pack on about 10 extra pounds from November to March, and so I have come up with a foolproof plan for those nosy types who are always looking to see if I’ve added an extra chin or if I am finally wearing a girdle. When I buy a skirt, I buy two: one in size 10 and one size 12.
Everybody in my office thinks I am wearing the same skirts all winter long! They wonder how I can bring in Ziploc bags of leftover holiday treats and still fit into my pencil-slim skirts.
This year I seem to have a problem, though. I started wearing my size 12s in September and now I have nowhere to go but down. Why didn’t someone get me a gift certificate to Curves this year instead of a new waffle maker?
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in Connecticut. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com
