Sometimes it gets a little too much. I can’t control the tiredness and general exhaustion I feel from running my own home. Some days when my workload has been piled to the ceiling and all I’ve had all day is staff talking my ears off so I can’t concentrate on finishing my ever increasing to-do pile, my mind tires of everything in its path. In this heat my feet blow up like balloons, and the sweat is dripping off me as I sit at the desk using all my energy trying to ignore them talking about TV shows they saw and what their favourite colour is. Blah blah. I want to be asleep, I’d sleep standing up if I could.
Exhausted and sticky, I finally return home to find a counter covered in dirty dishes, empty boxes and my fiancé with his feet up after a long day of doing nothing and I can’t help but wonder why he couldn’t, just this once, wash the dishes for me. It’s not like I ever ask, or expect anyone to do it but it would just be nice for a change to not have to walk in from work and have to clean up the mess he’s made while he’s not being at work. One can dream.
Any other day, I merrily plod along, cleaning, watering my plant pots, cooking our meals while he sits and watches TV. As the mere secondary bread winner, I attempt to earn my keep by cleaning house and cooking, because it is a fact that his job is intellectually much harder than mine, and for a lot longer hours, but that doesn’t make my aching legs not ache and my swollen feet not swell. I am tired, more than usual with an accompanying headache and my patience wearing thin with menial tasks. He didn’t make the bed either. I think I might move out instead.