When I call myself a housewife, someone whose life is boxed in by
cleaning other people's sh*t off the toilet, my life seems pointless
and derailed. I resent my husband and snap at my kids for leaving
clothes on the floor. I fixate on every smudge that separates me from household perfection. I turn into someone it horrifies me to be, the mother who's All Nag All The Time. I wonder in misery: how did I get here?
When I call myself a writer, or a philosopher, or a programmer, or a wonderfully eclectic renaissance woman, or a slightly eccentric deep thinker, I'm excited to get up in the morning. I feel alive, attuned to something bigger, brimming with ideas, smart and funny and intense. I look forward to seeing my kids and hearing what they think. I look at my husband in ways that make him giddy with anticipation. I think to myself: life rocks.
Either way, the toilet gets cleaned. The laundry gets done. Bills get paid,
food gets bought, we eat dinner. What differs is my experience: of
myself, of my environment, of my family, of the entire universe, really.
So why are there days that I wake up and think I'm just a housewife? Of the countless things in the universe that impinge upon my life, my self concept is one I have total control over. Why do I ever choose a suit that rides up, pinches, and makes me break out in hives?
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