I’m looking at the calendar and thinking that since it’s June 18th, that ten days since I last wrote isn’t all that bad. And since I can’t remember the last time I was this angry, I suppose it’s quite convenient that I have a place to get a few things off my chest, just like I used to.
Unfortunately, I vaguely remember having fun relieving myself of the small but annoying aspects of my simple life. That would not be the case at this point, however, and while I’ve worked my way through my semi-private temper tantrum this evening, a few things have dawned on me.
The entire time I was working at my not so illustrious career, the fact that I had this load on my plate most likely contributed to my professional demise. Not that I need an excuse to understand it, mind you. I’m just floored thinking about it. I’m floored thinking again about something I’ve realized for years and years: that women just have to suck it up. They have to deal. They have to be the glue and the duct tape and the plaster or whatever it takes to hold the structure everyone depends upon in place.
I knew this.
But somehow, I managed to eek out whatever I found solace in to manage. And in that effort, I managed to find that solace in things that needed to be taken care of: my home and family. I enjoyed my gardening. I loved to cook. I even found comfort in cleaning my house. The big joke was that Martha Stewart actually lived in our house.
And then I gave it up for my job until I gave my job up for myself — or what was left of me.
So now that I’ve joined the portion of society that gets credit for being functional by getting dressed and going to work again, I’ve decided that it’s no longer comforting or pleasant to engage in the domestic tasks mentioned above. I don’t want to pick up. I don’t feel like doing the laundry or dusting. I don’t crave time thinking about which print would look best against that wall in my bathroom that is in desperate need of something hanging on it.
And do you know why?
Because nobody else cares. No. Body. It’s all been just a giant placebo to allow me a diversion so I could keep an even keel. Stay the course. Avoid flipping out.
But I think I like my new job.
I just need a couple of posters so I can make some signs to protest the on-going crap women have to put up with when they work. I’d love to squeeze between their accusing content and walk the streets until a desperate reporter from a failing paper decided to write my story even though there’s nothing spectacular about it. Just because.
I’m completely convinced I’m getting in line to be a man in my next life — but only if I can guarantee that I can have a wife like me.
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