do less

My life is a giant compilation of lists: to-do lists, things we need from the store, books I want to read, errands that need to be taken care of, who wants what for Christmas, favorite fall movies, names for imaginary, future children, how much weight I want to lose, etc. So at any given moment, the things running through my head could be: drop the car off at the mechanic (it’s making that rattling sound again), strawberries, The Perfect Storm, pick up paperwork from UPS, Anderson likes anything that has wheels, Stepmom, Steel Magnolias, four pounds.

I sometimes think this must be what it is to be a woman: to have a constant barrage of thoughts and ideas fighting for first position in your brain but being able to organize them based on importance (Marcus’ nine month appointment needs to be scheduled before I worry about finishing the book I started three weeks ago) while still accomplishing (almost) every single thing set before you. And we are taught from an early age that this is how it will be. You (a woman) were made to make the list, organize and prioritize the list, accomplish what is on the list, and do it while maintaining an air of calm, cool and collected. 

So here enter all the feminists, yelling at the men for putting us in these boxes, forcing us to be the list-making, child-rearing, heel-wearing, pretty little things they so desire. But here’s the thing: I think we kind of do it to ourselves. When I got married, my husband didn’t sit me down and say, “Now here’s how it’s going to be from now on, Toots,” (mainly because we don’t live in the forties but also because he’s not a controlling jerk). When we got married, we both worked full time, lived in a crappy tiny apartment which we loved, and had approximately twelve dollars to rub together. I did the majority of the cleaning (except when the roof caved because the upstairs neighbors flooded their apartment, I let maintenance take care of that) and cooking (much pasta was consumed in the early days). This isn’t because my husband didn’t want to take care of our home or feed us. On the contrary, he is the most willing person I’ve ever met. It’s constantly, “What do you need?” “Can I help you with that?” with him. But the truth is: I find great satisfaction in being the one who makes our house a home, the one who plans out meals and does the grocery shopping and prepares dinner. I love to hear my husband say, “Thanks for cooking dinner!” as he does every single time I cook dinner. It pleases me. I prefer it this way.

The problem for a lot of women arises when a husband or partner expects things to look a certain way but is unwilling to bring about his expectations. It is when they look at you as a tireless workhorse rather than an equal and beloved partner. 

I find the problem I face is recognizing (or acknowledging and acting upon the recognized) limitations. While I may feel I thrive with seventy-two simultaneous lists on a loop in my head, truth is that it can be extremely draining to try to do so many things at a steady, often too-fast rate. We are often expected, as women, to look nice, accomplish everything on our list, be homemakers, exceptional partners, and never have bags under our eyes. I am challenging myself to try to do less. And it sounds dumb even as I write it. But sometimes when I sit down on the porch with the sun shining on me and I pull out a book, I think about how this is how it could be. If I learned to do less. If I stop vacuuming twice a day (it is needed because of our dog but is it really necessary?), if I let the laundry sit until tomorrow, if I choose to read or write instead of looking at my phone – wouldn’t life be sweeter?