Pissed off stream of consciousness from a lucky plucky gal

I had some insight today into why I’m feeling pissed off.

(And by the way, sorry I haven’t written in months. My friend Etana has been bugging me to write, and she signed her e-mail “creatively yours,” so that sort of motivated me. And then Roger and Suzanne gently urged me on as well.)

But what’s also motivating me is my feeling of frustration. No, it’s more than that. It’s the Sisyphus thing, like I’m pushing a rock up a hill and wake up the next morning to find that it’s at the bottom again. Or maybe it’s the hamster wheel thing…around and around and around I go, but where does it get me? Of course, bottom line is that I’m putting the best part of my energy into raising strong, healthy, kind, happy kids, and I’m very blessed. Yes, that’s true. I’m blessed, thank God or Whoever. I have to say that. But, that said, I can still take some time and a minor bit of energy to think about why I’m feeling pissed off.

What am I pissed off at? Let’s start with who (or whom?). First, my parents’ generation, who are generally enjoying a happy, healthy, well-traveled, and secure retirement. They don’t just have rights, they have entitlements. They feel entitled to take time for themselves, to relax. Or maybe I can paraphrase this attitude as, “It doesn’t take a village, and I’m living in a luxury retirement condo anyway.” They’ve done their work. Now we need to do ours. (I’m inaccurately quoting the mother of a friend here, but that’s the general feeling.) But, darn it all, we are working. I feel like Henry the effing Workhorse in Animal Farm. “I will work harder…I will work harder…” and eventually he ended up as dog food. Yes, I’m being somewhat over the top, yes I did choose to have 3 kids in a declining economy and country, but I can still be annoyed, okay? (And I’m not specifically blaming my parents, because they are pretty helpful, within their own self-imposed limits. It’s more like some twisted version of Schadenfreude that’s actually jealousy about the fortune of others.)

Anyway, here’s why I’m really pissed off. I realized this morning -- as I was sprinting to the Metro after waking at 5 am and getting 3 kids out the door at 7:45 innumerable juggles and negotiations later – that I’m not living the way I was raised. When I was growing up, in the Free to Be You and Me 1970s, the argument went as follows: Girls can be anything boys can be. A woman has a right to work. Why should a woman have to stay home and take care of the kids? She shouldn’t be consigned to a mere joblet. And so forth. The goal was Working Girl does Wall Street. Does anyone remember this commercial –– “I can bring home bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never let you forget you’re a man. ‘Cause I’m a woman....Enjolie.” My mom was outraged that this was what “the feminists” wanted women to become, and she cut out the ad and taped it to our 1970s tan refrigerator. But she was caught up in the throes of an argument that doesn’t make sense anymore. I say, f—k the “choice” of being the Enjolie woman. I have never had a choice but to work.

And I was raised middle or upper middle class. I’m not from a working class background. I expected to work, but I also expected my husband to support me financially. I expected us not to need my income. The point I want to make now is about the times, which have a-changed. Nobody chooses to be the Enjolie woman anymore. Most of us are her by default. (Except forget the never never let you forget you’re a man part, because I don’t have the time, energy, or inclination for that kind of subterfuge.) And, hey, what about Ms. Enjolie’s kids? Were they glued to the boob tube watching the Brady Bunch or Family Affair? Did their mom put them to bed at 7:30 pm after a supper of Kool-aid and tv dinners? Toggling between the 1970s and now makes me feel a bit like Rip van Winkle. I guess that’s what happens once you hit 40.

I remember when I was in 10th grade, our biology teacher had us write about what we thought we’d be doing when we grew up. I wrote that I would be a psychologist living in LA, married to someone in the Spanish royal family. In my essay, I wrote that one cute American guy had wanted me to marry him, but his dream was to live in Alaska and I knew that that would never work for me. So, there I was, living in LA, being a psychologist, and happily married to my Spaniard. Our biology teacher’s purpose in having us do the exercise was to point out that none of us thought about the reality of having kids in our essays. The essays were actually a starting point for talking about contraception, and looking back, I think it was a great idea.

My point is that none of us in the class thought about the need to struggle for money to maintain a middle class, upwardly mobile lifestyle. Never, never, never. Yes, I should have listened to my grandfather and gone to law school, but I’m sure at the time that we all assumed that if you just did what you loved, enough money would follow. That there would be enough slack for a do-over if you messed up. And that if you didn’t mess up, you didn’t have anything to worry about. I don’t think that’s the case now.

Sooo… I’m pissed off because I was raised to exemplify an argument – “Women have a right to work! Hear me roar!” – but my life now is “Women get weary.” It’s not a failure of feminist ideals, although the American feminists seem to have forgotten about maternity leave. It’s more a failure of capitalism, or maybe it’s capitalism’s success. I don’t have any other “isms” to suggest, since I generally don’t trust them. Somehow I’ve become this slogging hardworking slob who has been given the “freedom” to take on all of the risk that corporations and the government used to take on.

Even those among us who are well off -- (which I don’t think includes me, although of course I’m well off compared to a Sudanese villager and I’m blessed to live in a relatively peaceful land, yadaydayda…) – are facing some hard truths. Let me rephrase that. Even for those of us who aren’t living paycheck to paycheck (not me, unfortunately), trying to give our kids the same semblance of middle class security and education that we had growing up is a huge stretch. My grandparents managed to put away enough money to put most of their grandchildren through college. I’m putting $120 a month into a limp and sickly 529 plan for my kids. Will that be enough for college any one of them? No way, Jose. Sure, there are ways to get around it, but it won’t pay for Harvard or even the University of Maryland.

And I heard on NPR last night that all 3 legs of the American retirement system may be crumbling. Pensions are becoming non-existent or unpayable, Social Security and Medicare may not be around once they’re drained by those damn babyboomers, and 401-Ks aren’t the magic bullet they were made out to be. So, what’s a gutsy gal to do in her old age? Become a plucky little old lady who builds her own trusty wooden stool and sells pies, like in Mother Goose? I wouldn’t want to do that even if I got to live in jolly olde England and use their National Health System. I need to think of some kind of business to run in my older years, but it’s hard enough to find time for everything I need to do now.

So…whine whine whine….As I say to my kids, “What kind of voice are you using?” Definitely a whiny voice. I’m not even saying please. Please, please, powers that be, can I please have income security in my old age and a decently priced college education for my kids without having to indenture them to the military (God forbid)? Please? And the answer comes down in a deep voice from on high: “Sorry, life isn’t fair. You get what you get and you don’t get upset.”

Oh well, I guess it’s time to ignore it all. No wonder musicals were popular during the Depression. Even if I want to face reality (and since it’s impossible to escape it, I might as well), I still need a little picker-upper for my spirits. We all do. I think the way forward is to think outside of the box somehow. I need inspiration for that, and I need people to brainstorm with. I guess the irritation and resentment I’m feeling can be a motivator. It can provide the kinetic energy to get me out of my head and actually moving forward on something and leave outdated ideas behind. We’ll see. Stay posted. Same bat time, same bat channel.