In this week’s “Hitched” column for The Frisky, I wonder on the question, “What does it mean to be a wife?” For me, the term “wife” isn’t a necessarily positive one. And yet here I am on a one-way track to wifedom. Part of the problem is that I don’t ever intend to become a mother.
The word itself doesn’t have immediately positive connotations for me. You say “wife,” and what I imagine is a long-suffering Alice Kramden or permanently put-upon June Cleaver. A string of women in skirt-suits standing stoically next to their husbands during embarrassing adultery-related press conferences. I think of bland casseroles in the oven. I think of screaming kids in the yard. Picket fences and that kind of shit.