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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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11:32 a.m. - 2010-11-25
Sometimes my gender astonishes me. No, I'm not amazed at my own female-ness and wake up sometimes going, "WTF? I have tits?" I mean women in general. The stuff we do, the way we think and behave. Knocks me out. The crap we sign up for, the agonies we put ourselves through. Sure, I get impatient with men. All their infantile wars and strutting and brutality. Who doesn't? But this morning as I'm scrolling through my friends' blogs and FB posts the wailing martyrdom is raising to the heavens, the pained yet boastful chorusing of all the chores we've done, all the cooking and cleaning, the into-the-night peeling and chopping, the early rising, the sanitized bathrooms, the sparkling silverware and how nobody but us, the martyr brigade, can do it. The fury over the simple chores we've assigned our menfolk and offspring and how even those must be supervised and probably re-done (by us, of course) and we weep over their lousy priorities and their cluelessness about how important all this nitty-natty is and why, why, why won't they really help? Girlfriends, I'm calling you out. Nobody expects any of this shite but you. Nobody cares about the perfectly ironed doilies but you. Nobody is sitting at your table inspecting the olive tray and thinking you're a failure because the proportion of Greek olives is out of whack from the Italian ones. I guarantee that a good 89% of the crap you've cleaned and details you made yourself nuts over is worthless. Worthless in that if those things were left undone, nobody would notice. I like making a lovely meal and serving it on a pretty table and entertaining in a reasonably tidy house. It's one of the ways I say, "I love you." What I am NOT doing is reorganizing my attic or painting the garage floor. Or biting the inside of my cheeks with frustrated anger because Mick chose to spend the morning raking leaves instead of putting new wallpaper up in the foyer. My friends and family will just have to deal with the ratty wallpaper. And the dying geraniums on the sideboard. And that my kid is wearing a wrinkly t-shirt that says something snarky on the front. What they will get is a terrific meal. A hefty glass of wine if they want one. And a relaxed hostess who's glad to see them and who isn't sneaking off to the laundry room to gnash her teeth and weep hysterically because one of the rolls came out too brown. Trust me. I get it. I used to beat the crap out of myself too. I was once one of those who felt judged and on the line and under an electron microscope of criticism. I remember the anxiety and fear of shame, the utter terror of getting everything absolutely PERFECT or the punishments would be too gruesome to bear. Truly. I understand. But, my darlings, it doesn't have to be that way. You do NOT have to put yourself through it. And I, who loves you and thinks you're nifty keen 'flaws' and all, is begging you to stop. Stop. Fix yourself a cup of coffee, tune into the parade and put your feet up for a bit. Remember why we gather around the table today. It's not so we can show off our dishwater chapped and paring knife nicked fingers, or beg for validation that yes, we ARE allowed to live for another year (worthless things that we are), or impress our guests and family by how wild-eyed and exhausted we are. Today we offer up gratitude for love. For bounty. For being able to share a meal and know we're together and be glad of it. Love yourself just as much as the people you're feeding. Don't lade them with your guilt and poor self-esteem. Give them more credit than that. And cut yourself a break. And an extra piece of pie. And RELAX! Please?
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