Perfect Housewife
My alarm rings at 3:57 a.m. sharp. I bolt upright in my twin-size bed, quietly creeping out as to not wake my husband, who slumbers in his three-fourths of the room. In the bathroom, I pull the rollers out of my hair and do my typical 28-step makeup routine until none of my original (not yet fixed) facial features are visible. I make a gash in my palm and sip daintily from the blood that seeps from the wound, barely recognizing the 20-year-old woman gazing back at me in the mirror.
With the ritual for eternal youth complete and my waist measuring five inches around — I need to work on that — I take a shallow, shaky breath and plaster a perfect showroom smile across my hollow face. I slave away for hours making bread from scratch and preparing a breakfast to rival classic Americana sitcom spreads — pancakes, waffles, eggs (both poached and sunny-side), bacon, french toast, fruit, and even fresh-squeezed orange juice — all laid out meticulously on my husband’s dining room table. I tip-toe back into the bedroom and wake my sleeping husband. I draw back the blinds, allowing sunlight to stream into the room, onto his forehead, but above his eyes. I brace myself for the litany of complaints at being pulled from sleep. My breathing stays shallow, and my head begins to pound. As he pouts, I swallow my nausea and hold my uncanny smile, dutifully dragging him out of bed, dressing him, and making his coffee. I love my husband. I rustle the children and dress them as well, preparing them for school. My husband spills his coffee on the floor, leaving it for me to clean, and grabs a single slice of toast before rushing out the door. I hold myself steady and lightly kiss his cheek as he passes by. My vision grows dark. I hear my blood pounding in my ears. I usher the children off to the bus and collapse to the ground as soon as I click the front door shut. My hands weakly reach for the lock and fail, and black overtakes my sight.
The doorbell rings, cutting through the silence. The Milkman has arrived for our daily delivery.
He steps into the house, takes in the sight of me, and carefully undoes my apron and constricting girdle. Oxygen floods my airways once more, and my vision returns. He lifts me up and carries me to the bedroom, undoing his belt. My husband never takes care of me, but the Milkman listens and provides. Thank goodness he comes every day to alleviate my stress — in more ways than one.
When not deep in editing, Jenna often finds herself practicing laughs in the mirror or querying the universe on ways to be funnier.
