A few months before my wedding, I was employed as a waitress in a somewhat run-down, poorly-decorated, slightly stale-smelling Mexican food restaurant. This is one of the three restaurants in the small Texas town where I grew up, and where I have returned to live after meandering around the Southern and Western portions of the U.S. for about 10 years. One evening I happened to find myself waiting on an older woman with whom I had been employed as a teenager. The woman was a person I respected. On top of being a talented writer and notoriously gifted chef, she had always been kind to me when I was an obnoxious and moody teen, and again as a patron of the restaurant where I regularly served her enchiladas (i.e., she was a good tipper). But my esteem of her open-mindedness withered on this night.

While chit-chatting about my upcoming marriage, she asked me what I intended to “do” after the wedding, questioning, I assume, whether or not I would still continue to work as a waitress. I told her no, that since I was resuming my classes in the fall, I had decided to devote the rest of my summer to “being a wife.” She made no attempt to mask the disapproval on her face. “What’s the matter, Miss Laura*?” I asked her, “You look concerned!”

“I am,” she replied. “I’ve just always thought you were so smart. I just hate to see-” She broke off and refused to continue.

I was stymied. After all, my plans included the completion of a university degree. Furthermore, what the heck did she think was so great about me being a waitress? It’s not like I had decided to abandon my seat in the Senate in favor of exploring my new duties as a wife. But even if I had decided to assume domestic duties instead of continuing my education or toiling away for a paycheque, what right did she have to frown and purse her lips at me?

Now, I realize that everyone is entitled to their own opinion. And I may or may not have a more liberal opinion than most when it comes to “following your bliss.” After all, there was a time in my life when I seriously considered joining the circus or becoming a “drunken artist” as career choices. However, I think Miss Laura’s disapprobation of my decision is symptomatic of a rather unfortunate lie that seems to pervade Western culture.

As I understand it, there was once a time when society frowned upon a woman who sought work outside of her home, excepting those women who chose jobs which by their very nature bespoke of selfless nobility and feminine humility (like being a schoolmarm or a nurse). Only the rebellious or the impoverished would have considered the renunciation of their “natural work” to leave the house every day like a man and join the workforce. I’m not sure of the precise moment when this attitude changed. Maybe it was during WWII with “Rosie the Riveter.” Maybe it was before that. In any case, the opposite attitude now seems to have attained cultural prevalence: that is, outside of Amish and polygamist Mormon circles, women who choose not to work outside the home are (tacitly) derided as lazy, moronic, or absurdly old-fashioned.

What a terrible lie! In the two months following my marriage, I was a most zealous homemaker. I got up in the morning with my husband and prepared a hot breakfast for him. I made coffee and sent him off to work with a balanced meal tucked neatly inside a brown paper bag. I planned meals and shopped for groceries, carefully minding the budget. I cleaned the house, laundered our clothes, and hung them out to dry on our sunny laundry line. Occasionally, I would have some spare time to read, write, or work on a collage. In the afternoon, I would begin preparations for the evening meal. And by the time my husband arrived home from work, I made sure I was showered and dressed with makeup on, that the rooms were filled with the pleasant smell of burning incense, that there was relaxing music on the stereo, and if it was gloomy outside, I lit candles so that the house would seem like a cozy respite from the work-a-day world. This was work that made me blissfully happy, that satisfied some deep (biological?) longing in my soul. It was not work for a moron. It was not easy or light. It was not work for a lazy person, either. I had little down-time; to accomplish all the tasks on my daily agenda required the vigilant management of my time. I ate not a single bon-bon in all those days.

So maybe I’m just an old-fashioned girl at heart. Maybe. In this era, there is lot of talk about the rights and liberties of women. We are (rightfully) indignant when we discover that women in the workforce are frequently paid less than men with whom they share an equal position and workload. We take it for granted that women have the right to work outside of their homes, so much so that we expect this to be the case. I look around my college campus at all the young women seeking a certificate of education, presumably so they can obtain employment, and I wonder: how many of them really want to do what it is they endeavor to do? In most of my classes, the students seem dispassionate, as though they are obliged to be there by some authority, not because they truly have a zeal for knowledge or a passion for the work they will seek with their degree. Even I find myself doubting my motives for being here. After all, since returning to school full-time after two months of domestic bliss, I find my satisfaction with life to be somewhat diminished. I am here because I qualified for a grant to fund my education, and to pass up the opportunity seemed foolish or ungrateful when I considered how many people across the globe would weep tears of joy for such a chance. Yet my own motives are not precisely clear to me. Am I here because I desire to be here, or have I simply (at last) given in to a system that dictates our worth as humans according to our earning potential?

*names changed to protect me from the potentially offended