So.  I don’t believe in “women’s work” and “men’s work”.  I can do the dishes and cook and bake a cake and iron the clothes and raise my son just as well as I can mow the lawn and fix the car.

My mom was a stay-at-home-housewife.  She took care of EVERYTHING at home.  Smooth, smooth running ship.  That probably set me up for some false expectations.

I came home the other day and caught up on laundry.  I was folding my clothes and was mortified to see how many of my boxers and socks had developed holes and how many of my plain white tees were stained and “cream” colored at best.  Guys are lucky.  I was able to run out and get all new foundations for under $100.  12 new t-shirts, 14 new pairs of boxers, 24 new pairs of socks.  Done.

So.  Why does anyone care about my underwear?  I don’t know.  I’m not the one still reading this (he said optimistically).  But it was kind of a weird thing.  Normally holes in socks drive me crazy.  How did I end up with so many socks with holes in them?  How did I not notice a hole in a single pair of boxer shorts, much less three or four?  Was I not hoping that I’d get laid sometime and want to make a good impression?  When did I just give up?

It’s funny.  You go through therapy and one of the first questions that they ask about is self-care?  Are you doing things that make you happy?  Do you still masturbate?  Do you get good sleep?  Do you take showers regularly and eat well?  But they’re kind of vague about it.  They don’t ask things like “Hey, have you stopped caring if your socks have holes in them?”  “Do you have mushrooms growing in your basement because you have a tiny leak in a pipe that you can’t be bothered to get fixed?”

Being divorced is not exactly where I want to be.  And if I was married, that doesn’t guarantee that my wife would be taking care of all this stuff for me, or even that that’s what I’d want.  But trying to do it all, all on your own can be a bit much.  I’ve done a good job since the divorce.  Both me and the Boy are fed.  There’s a roof over our heads, we’re clothed, even if my socks have holes.  It’s gotten easier over the last 5 years, there are routines.  I remember how terrified I was of screwing it all up and now it’s second nature.  But moments like this remind me that it could be a little better.  That this isn’t how it is supposed to be.

Anyways.  I’m hole free for the moment.


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