The New York Times has a pretty interesting article talking about a survey on happiness. It’s titled “He’s happier, she’s less so” and says :
“. . .there appears to be a growing happiness gap between men and women.
Two new research papers, using very different methods, have both come to this conclusion. Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers, economists at the University of Pennsylvania (and a couple), have looked at the traditional happiness data, in which people are simply asked how satisfied they are with their overall lives. In the early 1970s, women reported being slightly happier than men. Today, the two have switched places.”
And the reason ?
“Mr. Krueger, analyzing time-use studies over the last four decades, has found an even starker pattern. Since the 1960s, men have gradually cut back on activities they find unpleasant. They now work less and relax more.
Over the same span, women have replaced housework with paid work — and, as a result, are spending almost as much time doing things they don’t enjoy as in the past. Forty years ago, a typical woman spent about 23 hours a week in an activity considered unpleasant, or 40 more minutes than a typical man. Today, with men working less, the gap is 90 minutes. “
“What has changed — and what seems to be the most likely explanation for the happiness trends — is that women now have a much longer to-do list than they once did (including helping their aging parents). They can’t possibly get it all done, and many end up feeling as if they are somehow falling short.”
So what it boils down to is women are less happier than men. And I agree with the reason too. Women do have longer to-do lists. My husband disagrees – he thinks his to-do list is bigger than mine. So we are equal sort of – I think the work in our household is split 60-40, with me doing the 60%. My husband agrees about the 60-40, but thinks he’s doing the 60%. We both think we are over-worked. Hmphh ! So much for equality !
I have long considered the “Super-Woman” or “Super-Mom” deal a myth – a big, fat, blubbery myth. A Super-Woman would be vastly over-worked. Life as a normal woman is so much better. You get to have good days and bad days, and you get to have times when you can’t get everything done and it’s OK. Plus you don’t have to be a perfectionist.
I also do think that women think about minutiae much more, and worry much more. Behind every thing I do for my kids, there goes a lot of thought. Take clothes for example : I buy clothes, I consider size, pattern, style, fit, comfort, washability, how soon it will outgrow, kid’s favorite characters on the clothes, or their favorite colors. It takes time and considerable effort. If my husband were to do the same clothes shopping he’d take half the time. Why ? He’d consider one thing – size ie; whether it fits (now) or not. He’d be in and out of the store buying the first thing that’d fit. Men don’t think (at times like this). Still waters in this case don’t run deep. They might look deep in thought, but ask them about it, and they’re probably only thinking of dinner or the upcoming cricket match.
And it’s not just my husband. My brother’s the same way. My Dad may be the most organized person when it comes to paperwork, but ask him to do something beyond his usual sphere of work, like boil water and he’ll probably forget the details – like switching the burner on and off. My brother-in-law, my neighbor, and in fact most men, so my friends tell me, are similarly afflicted. Not that we appreciate them any less; we just recognize the disease.
Ok, so why is this ? Why is choosing clothes for the kids such tedium ? Why is housework considered such anathema for most men ? Oh, God forbid that they come into the kitchen and ladle a dish or something ! The skies might come crashing down, the natural progression of the world might stop, or Oh My God !! – we might not have a decent Hindi film this year. Oh, forget about the last one – it already happened.
But, seriously have you ever see the social sanction this practice has ? I’ve seen my Mom and Mom-in-law talk to the guys like they would turn into disabled chickens if they walked into the kitchen. Like you want a glass of water – I’ll get it for you. Or better yet – Amodini will. He gets the smile, I get the look that says “Up woman ! Doncha know your place ? It’s in the kitchen, and in your spare time, at the feet of any available male”. You want food ? What’s your favorite dish ? Let me fetch, cut, clean, cook and serve that for you, here where you sit. No need to move a muscle. And then looking at me – You, come help me.
My husband bathes the kids at my Mom’s place, and my parents are in raptures – like look at that considerate, unselfish, valiant young man going above and beyond the call of duty. My husband changes one kiddie diaper at my in-law’s place, and the entire family is dumb-struck. Men can do that ? Hmm, we always thought that they had this thumb condition, which prevented them from taping back the Huggies.
As a kid, the whole kitchen thing was apparently my thing. At least until I protested, and sought equality – the brother had better cut the salad too. My mother would trot out her reasons and do her best to quell me with “the look”, until my Dad came along and stayed firmly at my side. Reason won. Still, my Dad isn’t always there, and one gets the full blast of “expected womanliness” sans logic. As a girl I am expected to notice things. What don’t see the cushions at that unseemly angle ? Place them right. What, can’t smell the sabzi burning. (No, I couldn’t but I had a cold). Can’t guess the recipe just by looking at the dish – you blot on womanhood !
I sort of can’t blame the guys going around thinking they hold the world’s weight on their shoulders. Like if someone told me that all that was expected of me was to sit around, read the paper and order the food – you think I wouldn’t do it ? That if every once in a while when I used my two legs and two hands to fetch and carry, people would give me admiring glances, and stand around and applaud, I wouldn’t preen ? And if I took the afternoon off from my work to take the kid to the doctor’s , the office folk would look at me with awe and I’d become the poster-boy for ideal father-hood, and I wouldn’t see my own greatness ? Yeah, right !
Household work is unpaid and looked down upon. Household work constitutes what has been famously termed the second shift and can consist of cooking, cleaning, dusting, fetching, carrying, and being the general dogsbody when no-one else is available (which means always). It can also entail keeping lists in your head, remembering the names, birthdates and other assorted facts of about a 1000 or “close” family, and coordinating lives, clothes, Halloween costumes , pujas (desi ya know ?), basketball matches and birthday gifts.
So what’s with the work ? How come we have such long to-do lists ? As a desi woman some of it I think is traditionally foisted upon us – I am constantly told to take care of the family and household , feed the children well so they grow up strong etc, look after the hubby etc. No one’s telling the husband to “look after” me ! Years of “girlie” upbringing ie; reminded to be nurturing, deferential, respectful, solicitous, hard-working and the assumption that you will have a home-made career in the kitchen, whether you have anything else or not, takes it’s toll.
Lots of the work is also self-inflicted. I have friends who assure me that their kitchen must be absolutely clean before they retire for the night. And who’s cleaning it ? Not their better halves for sure. And guess who’s worrying about an unclean kitchen when you aren’t able to clean it one night? I think women do most of the work, primarily because the male partner won’t do it. And yes I have heard that they will help if asked, but please do you have to be asked ? The dishes won’t clean themselves. The clothes on the floor won’t hang themselves. You wish, yeah, but it ain’t happening.
The second reason is because women assume that if they won’t do it, it won’t get done. Or maybe work is just there to be done, and they can’t stand to see the sight of a messy closet or dishes or whatever, until the husband has cleaned up. It might be the case that the work does not get done until you do it, but it might be worthwhile to ask (again) first.
A lot of the work in (desi) households is repetetive work, clean, cook, launder. Repeat. Clean, cook . . . Just the house-work of a small nuclear family can swallow you up. There are closets to clean, paperwork to sort, bed-linens to launder. Add to that a couple of kids who think it’s fun to finger-paint on spotlessly clean, newly spread, sparkling white bed-sheets, and . . . it does not end.
I used to be a very, very “clean” person. The kind of person, who when she folds her towels must have the corners align. I am also a big fan of symmetry, hence my coffee table must sit exactly in the center of the carpet, and the centerpiece on the table must sit exactly in the center of the table. When I slip off my slippers/shoes and place them in the closet, both shoes must be parallel to each other. You get the idea.
My husband (and most men) can come home from work, totally not see a sink full of dishes, and leave to work-out for an hour. I have long pondered the reasons for this selective blindness. How come you can see the food on the counter, but about 2 feet away can’t see the sink ? He says it’s because it’s not the time; like not the time to clean. It’s the time to work-out and when the time is right, ie; after the working-out, relaxing etc. he will see them and get to them. Which he does.
Now, me – totally different mind-set. I come in, aiming to work-out too, but forget about that when I see the state of the house. It’s like warning bells going off in my head – “Dirty dishes front and center! Location : your house!” I can see all mom-like creatures smile devilishly “Gotcha” they say. Two hours later, the dish-washer’s loaded, the washing-ups done, the mess cleared up. But the time for the work-out’s gone and I’m exhausted.
However with the years my tolerance to unwashed dishes and general melee has increased. Sticking to my part of the duties and not doing the work because it’s there, has helped. Now I can come in and ignore the dishes, the scattered pillows (apparently the kids having a pillow fight with my nice cushions !! (**fume ** **fume** **combust**) and the general chaos of a busy household mid-week and actually continue with what I was planning to do.
At times like these, I imagine myself in extremely slimming pink athletic apparel, with the flag held high, running through what seems to be streams of adoring crowds, but what apparently are the mom-like creatures I was speaking of earlier, shooting daggers with their eyes (the daggers miss of course). The day is sunny and bright, yet balmy – kind of California like. I run on un-heeded. In the back-ground plays “We are the champions”.
After the run, I’ll come back and do the dishes, if it is my assigned task.
