I 
My job with the school district ended a week ago, and you know what I have been doing since then? Going to yoga class. Going to Zumba class. Baking. Snuggling my cat. It’s pretty awesome, but give me another week and I will be terribly bored. Besides, I need a job. Those Zumba classes don’t pay for themselves.
I never really wanted to be a housewife. And my parents never wanted me to be a housewife, either. My mother, in particular, was insistent that I become an astronaut and take her to space. (Not even kidding.) When it became apparent that aeronautics were not in my future, she decided that I should be a scientist. During my freshman and sophomore years, when I changed my major from environmental science to microbiology to animal biotechnology to art history to music production to film to Asian studies to Latin American studies, Mom finally decided that I should be a writer, and has been hassling me to write a book ever since. But only if it’s a nice book. And I’m not allowed to write about Utah, BYU, or Mormonism unless I’m saying something nice.
The only time I ever wanted to be a housewife was during my sophomore year of high school. I was struggling with a terrible bout of depression. Getting good grades had never required much effort before, but now chemistry and algebra II were kicking my ass, and it didn’t help that all I wanted to do was sleep. My parents were freaking out about my grade situation, but I had a plan, and that plan was to get married at nineteen and become a housewife. You didn’t need a high GPA for that.
The worst part was that my plan made me feel so smug and righteous. I was getting brainwashed every Sunday with tales of how fulfilling and delightful temple marriage and motherhood were. While my parents were worried about my future, I was worried about my eternal future. Why couldn’t they see that in the eternal perspective, a few bad grades didn’t matter?
(It’s sort of funny to me that the 16-year-old girl who didn’t care about her grades has become a 26-year-old woman who pouted for two weeks because she got one B last semester. That’s what happens when you lose your eternal perspective.)
I was an actual housewife for about two and half months when I was 22. I didn’t choose it, but that was the way it worked out. I’m sure it would have been better if I hadn’t been married to a complete asshole. Those two and half months were all it took for me to realize that I never, ever, EVER wanted to be a housewife again. I hated feeling powerless because I had no money of my own. I hated spending my days cleaning and watching soap operas. I hated being subject to the whims of my husband. (His whims sucked.)
I got away, thankfully. But I wonder how many Mormon women find themselves in positions that aren’t what they truly want, and feel unable to change it, or feel wicked for even wanting to. Even without an asshole husband, housewifery isn’t for everybody… unless you’re a Mormon woman, in which case it is, or you’re a bad, selfish person who doesn’t treasure your role as wife and mother.
And since a lot of my loved ones are Mormon women, that really pisses me off.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Zumba class to get to.
DISCLAIMER: I am well aware that many women are happy and fulfilled as housewives. I am not criticizing that decision. I am however, criticizing the notion that the only righteous path for a woman to take is marriage, motherhood and housewifery.
