I DO. I DO? I DO!

The wife was a victim of a hit-and-run. She was walking home from the supermarket, carrying her bags and minding her own business, when she collided head on with FIDA, irreconcilable differences and the advent of the pill. Some say those in the crosswalk nudged her toward the curb; others said the accident was unavoidable-the product of time, the consequence of social change and the invisible powers that be.

It doesn’t matter what caused it. After the accident the wife was bruised, battered, and hardly recognizable. Some who didn’t like her rejoiced; others mourned her loss. Either way, they all whispered behind her back that she would never be the same.

From her ashes two new entities sprang like horns to take her place. One was the bride. The bride didn’t bake. She did not iron t-shirts or scrub counter-tops like the wife had done. The bride wouldn’t be caught dead in a curly-kit or a station wagon.

Instead she wore a 3-carat, emerald cut diamond in a platinum Cartier setting. The bride planned an elaborate four-day bachelorette party and imported irises from war-torn countries of Africa to match the exact shade of lavender chiffon that made up her bridesmaids’ dresses. The bride never gave a second thought to becoming a wife.

Later, the bride would eventually evolve into an entirely different entity, the soccer mum. The soccer mom baked the very same cookies the wife was famous for. She held down a full time job, volunteered as a class mum, went to the gym 5 times a week, had a vigorous sex life, and showed only a slight hint of the crows feet. Most impressive of all, she did not need a baby-sitter or house-keeper because she could do it all herself. (She also got by on 4 hours of sleep each night and never came down with the flu). It’s hard to think of the juggler mother as a wife because the husband didn’t really seem to be part of the picture.

When the wife was killed off, most of us thought we were freed from the straitjacket. Cook books were tossed into the garbage and we frowned upon the tradition of house-wifery. “Wife” became a dirty word. Still, the new nooses were forming, tightening at our throats. The archaic stereotype of woman as a homemaker was erased, but it was replaced by new ideals that have become just as constraining.