I’ve got a full-time job, a husband, a kid, a house, a car. I’m living the American dream! So why is it that as I push the vacuum cleaner back and forth, I’m like, “Fuck this! I hate domesticity!”
When I do laundry, I abuse the washing machine like it has personally wronged me. I’m slamming the lid down, knocking stuff around, growling — like primal growling.
“I fucking hate domesticity! Every excruciating minute of it!”
And I have to ask myself, “Is today the day I check myself into a mental institution? Am I crazy? Do I need more medication?” Then I soothingly stroke my own shoulder like Gollum, and I say, “This is just feminism. It’s feminism, right? Yeah, of course I feel this way!”
I like to think I have more important stuff to do. I don’t have more important stuff to do, but I wish I did. Like being Chief of Staff to a CEO, or better yet, the CEO herself. That woman doesn’t have time to waste cleaning house; she would outsource that shit.
Every time I do housework it makes me want to grab my go-bag — because, of course I’ve got one already packed — run to the car, and drive to anywhere that isn’t home. It is an undeniable “flight” response to household responsibilities.
My 3.5-year-old was recently trying to get my attention, and I was like, “Yeah, yeah, quiet down. Mommy’s trying to write jokes.”
I was not cut out to be a housewife, a mother, or a cleaner. I don’t think I was cut out to be anything, but these things especially don’t come naturally to me. This is just feminism, right?