Originally published on metropolis.co.jp on February 2012

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Scorn may not have been intended, but it appears, nonetheless, to have been assimilated. The Metropolis feature about Expat Wives, “Call of the Styled,” (Nov 4, 2011) gave most readers a chuckle over their morning coffee, others flicked past in indifferent boredom, but some, apparently, took great offence.

If you are a reader in no way connected to the expat world, this may seem trivial—a mere bagatelle—but humor, as some journalists have discovered to their detriment, is no laughing matter.

Such was the response from the “not amused” segment of readers that within days I had to wear shades (even though the future was not so bright), a coat with a raised collar, and change my accent from the habitual Swedish lilt to something more indecipherable. After two weeks, friends had been ostracized for their insolence in daring to share a morning cappuccino with me, also—apparently—known as “that woman!”

Three weeks post-partum, an angry mob more fearful than a knife-wielding manicurist ensured that I cast aside my mantle as “writer.” You don’t have much choice when the school run is like the gauntlet—no boot camp or personal trainer required.

It doesn’t take many do-it-yourself spy books, or “bluff your way into the CIA” guides to make a gal rise to her task. My opponents were fierce and determined—I had to be, too. As it happens, one’s self-preservation skills kick in about the time when your neighbor starts greeting you with an axe.

Before long, I was advising less “controversial” writers about their personal safety regimes: the thickness required for a flak jacket (6mm is optimum—any thicker and you will look like a mummified Michelin man); the commensurate ducking and diving, and the strength of the cyanide pill required for quick self-disposal should one be entirely outnumbered.

A friend and prolific writer about the yakuza proved eternally grateful for the wee bullets of wisdom I had to impart on the subject of self-defense. The witchcraft society became a prolific sponsor of my “evade the fire-pit” piece in their biweekly periodical. Needless to say, I was by now courted by the most prestigious secret service agencies worldwide.

None had come across the wrath of the slighted expat wife. None would ever wish to. Scores of look-alikes lay slain in my wake, the lead count in my honor was enough to topple any nuclear power plant. But like any sensible human being, when the going got seriously tough, the not-so-tough went into the expat wife protection scheme.
The alternative would have been to make a formal apology, declaring that “no expat wife has ever been to a beauty salon, ever dropped children at school, ever drank coffee and, God forbid, ever given poor junior any tooth-fairy money. Our time is way too busy with important things like saving the world, mankind and so on.” But one has to hold sacred the freedom of speech and uphold the sanctity of humor.
So, bags were hastily packed, kids whipped out of school and a plane boarded for an undisclosed location in Mallorca, Spain.

So here I am. In exile. Identities changed. A bit bored of my goatee, Y-fronts itching. I miss my old life: even to the point of risking the terror of the angry mob again, many oceans away. After all, you have to stand up for whom you are: Be it now, temporarily, or for the longest time. Know that you do not stop laughing because of old age, rather you become old when you stop laughing—even if it is at yourself.

For my next book, I am going to play it safe and uncontroversial. My subject of choice? Religion.

Read Ulrica’s original expat wives feature, “Call of the Styled,” here.