It should be stated straightaway that this is a delicate subject, one for personal, internal contemplation only. Broach the subject aloud and charges of sexism, even misogynism, are likely to fly, ending in the probable emasculation of the househusband before he’s even started, which would solve the immediate problem but cause a few others at the same time.
So – speaking out loud and very firmly – let me state right now that there is nothing a househusband cannot do that a housewife can except breast-feed the child. Even the most macho alpha male can, when needs must, clean the loos and iron the inside of shirt cuffs, despite his howls of protest.
But, speaking personally, there is one difference between the sexes that can never be overcome no matter how many times the challenge is accepted. It is for the male to develop the love of shopping that seems so prevalent in the female of the species.
It seems to be in the genes. Just watch little girls too young to read when they’re given books of fairy stories to look at. Boys just want to get on with the story. The girls pin down the pages with small, rigid fingers so they can look again at a picture of a pink dress or a pair of blue shoes while making gurgles of appreciation. It is obvious then that the next stop is fashion magazines and department store catalogues.
Many men, perhaps most men, find shopping at best a boring necessity and at worst a bloody nuisance. Women, mysterious creatures that they are, see it as a hobby, a networking opportunity and exercise all rolled into one. Given the chance they would probably make it a profession like medicine or the law. Some even dignify it with the euphemism, Retail Therapy. (When the compulsion has gone that far perhaps they need more conventional psychotherapy.)
A few years ago, having been dragged under protest to a north London shopping centre, I heard the saddest sentence I had ever heard in the English language. Two women were passing by when one said to the other: ‘Don’t lets get that today otherwise we’ll have nothing to shop for tomorrow.’
I weep, but who am I to complain. It means that, apart from essentials, this househusband can leave the shopping to Her-At-The-Office when she comes home.
Next time…..superman at the supermarket.
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