I have often said that I was raised to be a boy. People do not understand the gravity of this statement. It means many things. Though I was lavished with the best of the best from all over the world, and never had to move a muscle to get anything done, I was not just a pampered girl. I was a boy. When girls were talking about boys, I was planning my career. When my friends had crushes, I would debate the futility of it all. When girls wanted to marry, I wanted to live alone and have nothing but a career. I felt uncomfortable in girls’ company (and still do), because I sat with my fathers’ friends throughout my childhood. I listened to and participated in their conversations about the world and responsibilities. I learnt to file tax returns before I ever polished my nails, I learnt to avoid Mills and Boons/Sweet Dreams and went for War and Peace and the likes. But most importantly, I found myself to be a misfit amongst girls. Even now when my friends dress up for every day GTs, I find myself under dressed and usually without make up. When my friends talk about beautiful homes, and paintings and clothes, I feel at a loss. I could live in a box, for all I care. I’ve worn my husband’s stuff to work, because I care so little.

I married a man who loved my dreams as much as he loved me. I married him because he never questioned me and loved me for my eccentricities. Who I still argue with over, “why is this my job and not yours?” “Why aren’t you responsible for getting our daughter’s homework done and why is it always me?” etc etc; and he listens patiently. Of course, there is a human rights issue as well, because we both work long hours and contribute to the household incomes and share equally in all the external stresses, so it seems only fair that the domestic chores be divided as well. They never are, of course, because men are men; and women, well, are women.

But my latest revelation is that I find myself constantly wishing that I had a wife. A wife who had the house decorated, cooking done, groceries bought, beds made, kids loved and nurtured, homework done, my clothes lovingly pressed and eager to listen to me complain about my day… and all I had to do was go home and do NOTHING, except make demands, be heard and be pampered. But alas! Despite my upbringing, I am a woman and so none of this happens and I go home with only a few hours left till it’s time for bed, and do all the work .. Because, really, isn’t that the story of every household?

Perhaps, all I really want is my husband to come home and not work hundreds of miles away from me. So even when he does not share the work, he listens to me whine and makes it all better, somehow.

Until then, someone get me a wife!

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