The Cinderella Complex

I have the Cinderella complex, but it's not what you may think. In my version, Cinderella did the heavy lifting, the grunt work that even the average every day servants didn't want to do. She was the one who cleaned out the fireplace, extreme manual labor, making little ones out of big ones. She was the household backbone who got the big things done in order for the maidens to do the lighter fluff stuff.
I don't believe she waited for her prince to come, I believe, in my version, the prince recognized she was a leader of men and married her to help run the kingdom.
It's not the popular Disney version, but I think it's more realistic than the fairy tale version.
Mike and I spent the weekend doing the heavy lifting in the yard. We put in a patio, installed an in-ground fountain and did general clean up of the yard. Raking, scrubbing, digging around beds, creating our silk purse from the sow's ear we were left with in our new home. When it comes to house work, that is what I have in mind. If it's tearing out drywall, re-tiling a bathroom, or putting in a new floor, I am in. If it is about vacuuming, dusting or doing dishes, then I am about to moan and groan for hours about not wanting to do it. I would much rather grab the tool belt than the dust pan. I like hard, heavy labor. I like sweating profusely rather than spritzing gently while doing more female stereotyped chores.
I am the worst housewife ever! I hate all the mundane activities of the accepted female trades. I hate shopping, sweeping, cleaning in general and bed-making in particular. All the little touches that make a house a home are not my thing. I do things because I have some warped feelings of obligation, but I feel no satisfaction from any of it. If the floor needs to be cleaned, I will clean it, begrudgingly, but I will do it when and only when I absolutely have to. I would much rather be the one who goes off to work, toiling in the hot sun, or in a corporate boardroom. Since I feel no gratification in housework, I feel no respect for it, either. I admire women who do it day in and day out, wondering how they manage not to end up sitting in a hot tub, razor blade in hand. I have no patience for it, as I push the sweeper around the floor the millionth time that week. Bitterly, I rinse the dishes to put in the dishwasher, again as I have done every day for the last 20+ years. I wonder to myself why I do it when they are only going back in the cupboard for some oaf to pull them out and get them dirty again in the next ten minutes.
I had always wanted to stay home with my kids when they were growing up, or so I had thought. I still feel so much guilt about not being around more when they were little, and needed me the most. What I had never had the desire for was to clean my own house. Build it, yes, but clean it? YUK!
Some women get so upset when you call them a housewife, because according to them they are not married to their house. But aren't we? Even in the smallest measure, aren't we married to our house if everything that happens in it, to it and around it is something we are accountable for? I often call myself the "Fishwife". (Insert bad female joke here). I say that because it is derogatory and no one in the world wants to be called the old Fishwife. That is exactly how I feel about the daily housework.
I freely admit, that when it comes to family positions, I am more male than female. I am more aggressive than submissive. Mike is the easy going one, going along for the ride, keeping the peace, doing what I ask. He is no push over and in every aspect, all man, but if we had traditional roles assigned, I would be the overbearing, dominant one.
Michael, bless his heart worked like a dog this weekend. He puts so much effort into everything he does. He is a control freak like his wife and asks for little help. He will while away entire days working alone, doing more than anyone person ever should without a single complaint. Not me, I will do the work, but everyone in the house and in a three mile radius will know all about how disgusted I am by it.
In the end, it all gets done in our house, the working, the loving, and eventually the playing.
So, much like Cinderella herself, I am in charge of our kingdom. I run the castle and all it's contents, even if I hate holding the broom. My handsome prince will come today, change into his work clothes and help out with whatever there is to do. He will sweep me into his arms after the day is done and tell me that he loves me, still, even though I am the worst housewife ever.