Gender Bender

I grew up with all brothers, which some people think is akin to being raised by wolves. As my mother isn’t a stereotypical girly girl, I grew up reading books, carving sticks, and climbing things.

There isn’t a word for “tomboy” is Spanish, which is why my sisters-in-law can’t figure out why their brother married me. They consider me to be an oddly shaped man in dubious disguise. Besides NOT being crafty and only cooking when I deign absolutely necessary, I am also a champion burper (thanks, Mike), an anti-shopper (thanks, Mom), and the least romantic woman in the world. Ruyman stopped trying to buy me flowers early into our marriage because I “didn’t react appropriately.” (Seriously, though, flowers are a waste. They’re already dead so the petals fall off and mold. Then you have to clean up the whole thing afterwards. Buy me a live cactus that I can’t kill and that still cleans the air. That’s a gift I can appreciate.)

Spanish people are still very conservative when it comes to gender roles. Women wear very feminine clothes, cook for their men, and like to go shopping. Men drink beer, watch soccer, and are generally loud, drunken speed bumps in domestic life. Ruyman, being raised by group of strong women, is not a typical Spaniard. He makes me food and does laundry and is generally a nurturer. He even watches the occasional chick flick if it’s not too trite and isn’t a British period piece. Ruyman and his father actually bonded over a deep conversation about the movie Bridget Jones’s Diary (which I actually think is loads better than the book).

Ours is a bit of a gender bender marriage (for instance, I’ve always made more money than Ruyman), but we like it and it works for us. The person it doesn’t work for is my mother-in-law. She can’t for the life of her understand why we do what we do and how her son could be happy with someone who “doesn’t even know how to cook.” (Clarification: I cook quite well, thank you. But I don’t like to do it very often.) When Ruyman tries to explain that he doesn’t expect me to cook, she grumbles, “But she’s supposed to be a woman.” I know what she means by that, but I really don’t care. 

I tried for a few years to be a “perfect” wife, only to discover that it not only made me miserable, it made Ruyman miserable as well. As it turns out, he doesn’t want a stereotypical wife any more than I want a stereotypical husband. So we decided then and there to forget what we’re “supposed” to be and be ourselves: annoying, atypical, and crazy-in-love after five exciting years.

Sorry, in-laws. You’re just going to have to learn to live with it.