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I had talked about the weather. I told her I had gone here in New York, there in New York. Nothing about the ideas, the fucking, the emotional changes. Mom mentioned the weather, who was sick, who got married, who had a baby. Nothing down there had changed. Mom still called me Speedy.I put one of the small Hunter fans on the window sill and aimed it at myself on the floor. I took my glasses off and I resumed the workout. I said aloud, "Just take it in moderation, the way you were taught. Do it right. Do it right. Don't push so hard. Let it work."When I finished it was still drizzling outside. I went out anyway, in my jogging clothes.I kept telling myself, "Do it right. Do it right." It turned out to be a good run. I felt much better when I returned. I was dripping wet. My shoes squished noisily as I entered the living room with a smile on my face.Martha was sitting at the dining table. Her eyes popped open. She exclaimed, "You ran anyway?" Yep." I pulled my sopping t-shirt over my. I’m no longer beautiful, my personality has changed as I am now jaded and bitter, and I have no desire to use my domestic ability to take care of my husband as I once did. Since day after day it’s a new mess to clean up, a new diaper to change, another dish to wash, another shirt to fold. There are no accomplishments. There are no goals met. There is no ladder climbed or glass ceiling broken. It’s just another dirty dish in the sink. It’s another sock in the drawer. Every compliment I am given on being a wife and mother is received with a blush, downcast eyes, and a sweet thank you. Afterward I always say something along the lines of, ‘I couldn’t do anything without his help.’ or ‘It’s worth it because he is so good to me.’ No one would ever hear a negative word about him from my lips. Inside, I am bitter. Every ‘thank you’ I receive hits me in the chest like a sledgehammer. Every time someone tells me I am brave or strong I want to vomit on my shoes. I hate being a good woman. I.
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