Martyrdom in the Sandwich Generation

Just to clarify, I think all children should look after their parents in old age. I certainly do. Weekly I call up my parents -- who live a safe six or seven states away -- and I yell at them about the various health and welfare things to which I think they should attend. Believe me, I am an attentive daughter. But you don't see me spending every moment of my life taking care of others. Granted, I do feed and clothe my daughter on a reasonably regular basis, and I sometimes even feed my husband, but there is plenty of me time -- for my important activities. Like watching really bad, really old films. And baking cheesecakes.

Yet in this modern age of feminism I still seem to have friends who define being women as being complete martyrs to all those around them. Even when those around them are telling them to knock it off. These are women who have careers, run their households down to the smallest detail, take care of children, and parents, and Christmas. And they don't ask for help -- even from their husbands, who are willing to help. With them, the real meaning of feminism is: If you sacrifice enough, when you die, you will have the most points in your Cosmic Credit Card Rewards Account.

I've got two friends with parents in decline who also have children living at home. Both of these women have always gone out of their ways to find completely unnecessary ways to busy themselves -- like ironing their husbands shirts rather than sending them to cleaners in order to save $5, even though these women could make $100 in the same amount of time. Or hosting bridal showers for women who don't need a single thing for their households. Or laying out clothes for their 14-year-old sons.

At the same time, they also allow their mothers-in-law to pressure them into idiotic family situations, despite their husbands' vociferous protestations. I can only assume this is another part of their martyrdom -- that they care about family so much that they are willing to allow completely unreasonable women to abuse them for a few decades -- that can stand as a shining example of suffering for those around them.

Giving everything up for their children and husbands has been the norm, but now their parents are old and can no longer live completely independently. Naturally, these ladies have thrown themselves into helping their parents, as they should. And yet they cannot seem to delegate a single task to a sibling. No, every single item that needs caring for -- even those that others are better qualified to complete -- must be done, and done perfectly. And if delegation is suggested, they explain that others can't handle it and it is just easier for them to do these things themselves.

All their friends worry they are overdoing, and they talk about how devoted these sufferers are. Further, in the midst of this, these ladies are giving up activities they love because they take too much time, and this way, they can sacrifice more. In fact, they are so busy, they often don't have time to talk on the phone. Yet I notice that they appear to bask in delight when they hear new stories about how others are clucking over them.

Because this behavior is so alien to my own selfish nature, I set out to find some answers. I have discovered that there really is such a thing as a martyr complex, and that a lot of women really enjoy the feeling of doing too much, of not looking after themselves, and of being labeled as selfless givers. My own grandmother used to sit only on the edge of the chair, as an apparent sacrifice, because using the entire chair was just too much materialistic enjoyment for her. Endless sacrifice is a high, a sensation martyred women pursue as a way of feeling good about themselves. Every time they don't do for themselves, they feel fulfilled.

But in these particular cases I think that they want more than to live like martyrs, they want to look good while doing it. Both of these women are very thin, very interested in their appearances and always have to look just so. Yet martyrdom is the image they project. I can only assume that endless sacrifice is part of the look they want. Why being nailed to a cross is part of their ideal look is beyond me, but then again, so is mascara. But they want everyone to know that they are so considerate of other peoples' aesthetics that they look smooth while suffering.

Personally, I find this behavior really irritating, and rather than cooing and commiserating with these friends, I just treat them like my parents -- I yell at them about the various health and welfare things they should be doing. I am not sure it helps, but it does show that I am a true and devoted friend. Until that Spencer Tracy film festival starts on TCM, and then it is all about me.

Of Wrongdoings and Writing

I have decided to become a criminal. Not a violent one, not one who truly ruins other people's lives, but an entertaining criminal, like Frank Abagnale, the charming con artist/forger from Catch Me if You Can. Granted, I lack the artistic skills and overweening charm Mr. Abagnale clearly possesses, so this may be a bit unrealistic on my part. But I simply have to find some kind of criminality in which to become involved because, at my age, I think this might be the best way to get a literary agent.

As so many writers know, the key to getting that novel or memoir published is to find an agent. Not just any agent, but one who can secure that seven-figure deal. Were I young and uncomplicated, I could simply become a drug addict and a prostitute while attending an Ivy League university, and boom, I would be smothered by outpourings of affection from greedy manuscript sellers. But I did not come up with a book idea until I was middle aged, and a middle-aged, drug-addict prostitute is, well, redundant in so many circles.

For those of us in midlife who want that book deal, our crimes have to be more spectacular to secure that agent. Nicky Cruz, a New York street gang leader in his youth, found religion in middle age and has now published a dozen books that include lurid descriptions of street shootings and tortures along with his revelations. Of course, I already have religion, so this route may not be open to me.

Willie Sutton, a world-famous bank robber who heisted more than $2 million and spent years in federal prison, made a tidy sum off of his memoir, Where the Money Was and even made a credit-card commercial. But his plunders are nothing compared with those of Bill Mason, who claims to have stolen more then $35 million in his illustrious jewel-thieving career. In 2005 he published Confessions of a Master Jewel Thief.

Naturally, some of the most intriguing wrongdoing memoirs have been penned by politicians -- Bill Clinton and Richard Nixon come to mind -- but they likely would have gotten book deals anyway. Although I am certain the lurid details of their lives raised the price of their advances. Still, one has to wonder how much Rod Blagojevich will eventually receive for penning the unsavory tale of his slimy existence.

So, while I am an intermittently violent person (when the pop-top comes off the can without actually opening it, for example) I don't really have the gumption for a bloody sort of career. I need something clean, organized and not too unpleasant that can use my skills -- baking, talking, watching movies -- to a not-too-unpleasant illegal end. And then I can get that agent.