February 10, 2013 by ebostick1212
Spanish boyfriend or not, I know for a fact that I will grow up to be a Spanish housewife. I don’t even need a husband, I know it’s going to happen. Like a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, or like a cat becomes….well, a bigger cat, I too am beginning my metamorphosis to Spanish housewife-hood.
It all began when laid eyes upon the little carts the grandmothers drag to and from the local shops each day. These carritos are not a fashion accessory, but a necessity for bringing home the groceries. I realized it was meant to be when I thought to myself ‘yeah, I totally need to get myself one of those.’ I long to join the troops of waddling abuelitas, trailing carts full of pan de pueblo, tins upon tins of pimentón and curved links of chorizo.
Then I realized how much I love doing things ‘the ole fashioned way’. Do you know what I do on Fridays? I have the entire day off, unlike my auxiliar colleagues from other schools, who make use of this day to travel, I spend it going to the bank and doing chores. Often times I’ll make a guiso (stew) to freeze for the upcoming week. There is something so mindless about hanging the laundry in the sun, or stirring a pot of thick, soupy lentils, that I find super relaxing.
Of course part of me, the hardened, ardent feminist part, tells me I should be out there, exploring the world and breaking the glass ceiling. I often tell that part that I will get to it as soon as the laundry is done. Sure, I want to be successful in my work life, and live life as strong, professional woman, but for right now I want to turn off my brain and mop the living room floor, ok?
I will soon complete this morphing process, and don the uniform of a middle aged Spanish housewives: terry cloth slippers, a headset of curlers, and a full length cleaning smock. My boyfriend is a very lucky man.