Then there was the issue of the club. She really wanted to go there because it spelled freedom for one night. That was the main reason she’d asked us along on this trip, more than chipping in for gas. Her husband was tending to their infant, which translated into frantic phone calls from home every other hour asking if the infant could have this or should she rather have that. Even after two months he seemed as clueless as when he phoned in his wishes for that night’s meal, to which his wife duly complied, though pregnancy made her reject pretty much all foods and even the sight of most dishes as they were being prepared – much less smelling them – activated her gag reflex pretty much throughout her entire pregnancy. He changed diapers, of course, but as she put it herself, he had so much to do at work, asking him to tend to a crying infant on top of all that  . . . It just wouldn’t be feasible. 

It never mattered that she herself was pursuing a degree, and had been working three jobs before getting a promotion that allowed her to drop the most menial of the three. She was, after all, on maternity leave. The how and why of this negligible fact affecting her earnings was immediately and gingerly swept under the carpet. They had always expected her to contribute her share to the family income, they being her husband along with his father and mother, the latter who ran the family like the business they owned. Her daughter-in-law and her son would each throw in a certain sum of money into their joint account, and having consulted with various friends (the same friends who weighed in on on what her infant grandbaby surely had without ever seeing her, despite being experts in their fields link to Silesia III), she had calculated what this amount was to be and demanded it all fair and square into the (joint) family account. A great deal for him, as it meant her dearly beloved son could still put half of his paycheck aside to save or / and do with it whatever he pleased. Less auspicious for her daughter-in-law who was working three jobs just so she could contribute to the family fund. 

I always held that her mother-in-law saw a (relatively) pretty girl, decided she’d do for a broodmare and told her dearly beloved son to hold on to her, come hell or high water. With her living practically next door, childcare would not be a problem, as she was always ready, willing and able to lend a helping hand. He duly went to work, had his future wife tone down her makeup and how she behaved in public. This naturally included curtailed freedom when she wanted to have a night out with her friends (all girls, of course, because his way of thinking – and that of his mother – stipulated that boys and girls could never be friends. As everyone (in their circle) knew, brad thoughts occur when the two genders come together outside of marriage or the intent thereof). 

His wife seemed happy because she wanted to get married before hitting the dreaded thirty, and she had what she wanted, a house with pets, a fancy car and the husband with a prestigious name, all of which ensured that she was financially secure, which at the end of the day most of us strive for, regardless of what we deem our luxury threshold to be. The family she’d grown up in was nothing to write home about, and in a society that put a high premium on being in a relationship, going it solo was never an option. That he was barely hands on with their infant was only proof that he behaved much like all of her friends’ husbands. It took him less than two hours, she said on the first night we were in Silesia, to take their infant to his mother’s house next door so she could help. It was a story re-enacted and replayed in households all around Poland, as various Polish friends told me. Women in Poland were male identified, and that had not changed since the first settlers walked in, saw tillable land and decided that “this works, we’ll stay.”

So who could really blame her for wanting to cut loose and enjoy herself, even if only for one night, because luck – or some similar fortuitous alignment – had arranged her deck of cards in such a way as to give her a sense of freedom for 52 hours. A freedom she was going to make the most of by enjoying every free minute she had. So once she was done with the duties that had brought her there in the first place, she was ready to party. She’d picked out the club when she invited us on the trip (to split fuel costs and – it has to be said – to have some sober companions as when it comes to alcohol I can take it or leave it and the third person on board a.k.a. Sober Companion Too hates alcohol with a passion). She really wanted us there, despite one of us coming down with a cold and the other really not wanting to go. 

Disclaimer. The picture in question leads back to the protagonist of this post in that we all saw her on display in the town we drove to on our road trip. She has nothing else in common with the protagonist, and neither of us knows who she is. Not that we tried overly hard to discover her identity. 😀