A Working Woman's Lament

2-21-2005 - 11:43 a.m.

My diary is suffering, I know it.

A near-constant level of stress at work is taking its toll. My creative juices are sapped. By the time I get home from work, and I think of all the chores that are waiting for me at home-- the thought of sitting down and trying to be creative is a fucking joke.
My brain just needs a vegetative release... so I usually end up watching re-runs of Iron Chef or Project Runway. I've got knee-deep piles of laundry in my bedroom that I pretend don't exist. I've got dishes in the sink that are forming a congealed red crust.

I am pissed when I realized that 40 years ago, women wanted this. We wanted to work full-time in an office and then come home to mounds of laundry. We wanted to scarf down dinner in 15 minutes. We wanted to collapse on the sofa every evening, too exhausted to put any effort into our relationships.
My poor boyfriend. My poor dog. I'm lucky I don't have any kids.
And what's it all for? So I can get seaweed facials? So I can buy copper pans at Bloomingdales? So I can fill my life with distractions?

I'll wake up some morning when I'm 76 years old and wonder what the hell I worked for all these years. And there will still be a knee-deep pile of laundry on my bedroom floor.

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