When I had fantasies about stapling my boss’s hair to her desk, I figured I needed to re-evaluate my professional life.

So I quit.

It doesn’t escape me that I was lucky to be in a position where I could just make that decision. The impact wasn’t huge to our lifestyle. My income contribution was icing on the cake. I only worked part-time and I’ve always worked in human services. The most underpaid work in the whole world. A female-dominated, disastrously undervalued and underpaid industry #genderpaygap. Let’s just say you don’t stick around in human services for the pay packet.

 

With my new-found freedom, I derived the most fabulous plans about the mammoth achievements I would accomplish as I turned my focus to our family, the farm, study and general awesomeness. No daytime telly, three-hour phone calls, or mindless scrolling of the interwebs for me. No siree Bob. I was going to tick off my long list of those goals and not waste a second. I’d be self-motivated and action-packed. I’d have a plan. I’d stick to it. I would be some kind of super version of myself.

 

Oh puh-lease. Who was I kidding?

All I’ve really done is clean out a cupboard, filed paperwork and started a blog. Well, I’ve done a bit more than that, but not to the epic proportions I had conjured up in my head.

I think I was trying to compensate for the fact that it was the first time in my whole life that when people asked me “what I did”, also known as “how do you earn money?” that I didn’t have an easy answer. I found myself spewing out a convoluted story to justify my existence in the world. I’d find myself explaining how I do the book work for the farm now and how that has been a learning curve for me and that I volunteer more and I have good intentions of finishing a course and blah blah blah fucking blah.

So one day, I decided that if I was ever confronted with that question again I’d simply say “I’m a trophy wife”. I thought it was hilarious. Mr. Hooch looked at me like he often does… with utter bewilderment, and we both agreed that yes, I probably came in at the “participation ribbon” level of the trophy wife stakes, (thanks darling 🖕🏻), but none the less that was my go-to slogan. Trophy wife…Hilarious…Completely opposing my feminist views…Perfect! I even bought a new dress for the occasion.

 

I forgot, however, that not everyone understands my sense of humour. I need to gauge that a little better because not that long ago I was asked if I was “on a day off” or if I had to “get back to work”. I proudly blurted out that “I quit work about 18months ago. I’m a trophy wife now!”

A weird kind of silence sat in the room. Kinda like a fart no one claims.

Oh shit…. ‘should’ve worn my dress’, I thought.

So, I launched the old routine.

It was reciprocated with a “oh… good on you”.

I think it was genuine, but I also felt a slight vibe of “what are you doing? Who the hell doesn’t work these days?”

Or maybe it was me, reading too much into it. Maybe it’s me that doesn’t value my role enough in the world. Why is that? Why do women feel pressure to be everything? “I am woman… hear me roar and then hear me have a mental breakdown as I try and do it all, juggling my life to be the woman we read about”.

According to the world, we should be fit, slim, gluten-free, vegan yogi’s with a Master’s degree, climbing the professional ladder while simultaneously raising well balanced, high achieving children. We must do this whilst displaying the patience and understanding of the Dali Lama, as we gleefully serve up nutritious meals equalling the culinary skills of Nigella. And don’t forget to make time for your partner…have date nights; make time for friends; nurture family connections; donate; volunteer, and for god’s-sake walk the dog.

Nope. Fuck that. Not happening.

It’s a trophy wife’s life for me. At least for a little while longer, or until I want to staple my children’s hair to their desks. So far so good!

M