In 1970, the intelligentsia loved Diary of a Mad Housewife. In the movie, a woman with an emotionally abusive husband starts an affair with an emotionally abusive man. The movie’s dénouement sees her telling her story to an emotionally abusive group therapy session. Now, that same movie would be about a bored, elitist housewife who has polyamorous relationships, writes books, gets celebrated in the New York Times—and still isn’t happy. I hate to say it, but if these women took motherhood and grandmotherhood more seriously, they’d be happier and less slutty.
